Trash
by Swarovski
Summary: After surviving a near-fatal attack, Mac tries to work out the involvement of a teenaged girl. No team. *Not for the faint-hearted* The story is told back-to-front.
1. Tryon Residential Center for Girls

******Disclaimer**: All CSI:NY characters are the property of Anthony Zuiker and CBS.

**Author's note**: Someone asked for another story like "Angel of Mercy." Well, I've always wanted to try to tell a story backwards, and then this little idea popped into my head. Each of the four chapters precedes the previous one chronologically. If I get this right, the story should work in either direction. Either way, though, I'd better warn you: it's pretty grim, so I'll be changing the rating to M after the first chapter. :C

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**Chapter** **1. Tryon Residential Center for Girls, County Highway 107, Johnstown, NY**

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_Three months later_

"You're blonde again."

The girl looked shyly up at him as he spoke. When their glances met, he searched her eyes in vain for answers, just as he'd done three months earlier. Then he sat down across from her, exhaling slowly as he leaned back on the wooden chair.

A buxom, uniformed woman sat at a nearby table, her arms folded across her bosom. She watched the girl's first ever visitor curiously as he sat down. He still wore his arm in a sling and his deliberate movements spoke of lingering pain. His extraordinary ordeal at the hands of the girl and her father had briefly made national news, and she was fascinated by his willingness to meet her again. Although it was against regulations, she'd made sure to seat herself well within earshot of their conversation.

The terrible significance of his words hadn't escaped the girl. She laughed uneasily and tugged at her bangs with her fingertips, reminded of the unconscionable suffering she'd caused him.

"I'm letting it grow out. There's not much else to do around here."

When he didn't reply, she let go of her hair and dropped her hands into her lap. She studied his face closely, trying to think of something appropriate to add.

"You look much better now, Detective."

He stared past her at the snowflakes falling outside the window, distracted for a moment by an unwelcome memory of when they'd first met. It'd only taken seconds for their fates to become entwined; yet he'd spent months trying to disentangle himself from the encounter since. His body tensed instinctively at the recollection of having been just a hair's breadth from losing his life. The girl had watched as he'd been knocked senseless and dragged to what had seemed a certain death. For his own peace of mind, he needed to know if her intentions had been to save him or to damn him.

Much to his annoyance, cold sweat dampened his collar and he began to feel slightly light-headed. Stella had tried to warn him it wouldn't be easy, but he'd assured her that he'd be fine meeting the girl on his own. Now he'd have to pull himself together if he was going to go through with this.

"Hard not to, really," he replied absently, his eyes still focused on the past.

She glanced over her shoulder at the white emptiness behind her, before turning back to him. "What … what are you doing here?"

He looked at her in surprise. "You've been asking to see me. Had you forgotten already?"

"No, but I gave up on you _weeks_ ago."

She began twisting a strand of hair around her finger as if it were a knitting needle. The hairs tightened against her pale skin, leaving blotchy streaks, before they broke and frayed. He frowned, unpleasantly reminded of a caged bird picking at its own feathers.

"I couldn't come any sooner." He pointed at his sling and moved his fingertips slightly. "I'm still in pretty rough shape, as you can see."

She nodded, looking glum, but didn't offer a reply. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the hum of fluorescent lights above their heads as they sat staring at each other. Finally he broke eye contact to study the laminated sign on the wall beside the window.

_Hours for visitation are 3:00 to 4:00 p.m. Mon., Wed. & Fri. Only mom, dad or your legal guardian may visit you. Others may visit if approved by your probation counselor. Visitors are reminded that introducing contraband into the detention facility is a crime._

"Why am I here, Amy?" he asked.

"I guess … I just … wanted to thank you." She pulled a tuft of hair into her mouth and began chewing absently on it. "You know, for saving my life, right? I … didn't really get around to doing so. I feel real bad about that."

With brows furrowed in concern, he watched her work her jaw as if she were chewing gum. He put his hand over his eyes to rub them briefly, fighting off an overwhelming urge to tell her to stop. She probably already had enough people telling her what to do in a place like this.

"That's quite all right. I never thanked you for saving mine. Good thing you got hold of my gun."

To his relief, she pulled the saliva-slicked hair from between her teeth. "But I _missed_," she replied earnestly. "I'd never fired a gun before."

"Didn't matter, did it? I assume you weren't aiming at me, right?"

"Of course not," she replied indignantly, but tears immediately sprang to her eyes. "I just –" She blinked at him, her throat suddenly too tight to speak.

He sensed that the girl's remorse had something to do with his gun. When it had been recovered, it'd had the fingerprints of all three of them on it, yet the gun had only been fired once, by her. That much he still remembered. _So_ _what had happened afterwards?_

Over the years, he'd often watched suspects struggle with an overpowering urge to unburden their souls to him, as if he were their priest. He'd come to recognize the signs letting him know that time was on his side: the twitches, the broken sentences, the pleading eyes. All he needed to do now was wait for the right moment to ask about the gun.

She wiped her fingertips under her eyes and tilted her head back to prevent the tears from rolling down her face. "I really should've done _more _than that, shouldn't I?" she asked him, her gaze fixed on the ceiling now.

"Yes, you should've." He sighed and looked around the sparsely furnished rec room. The chairs and tables were bolted to the floor and the TV was mounted to the wall behind a mesh screen. "But I guess that's why you're in here now."

They sat in awkward silence for a moment while sobs continued to rack her slender frame. He turned to glance at the woman sitting impassively behind him, clearly eavesdropping on them. _No touching_, she'd told him sternly when he'd arrived at the detention center.

"What's the matter, Amy?"

When the girl looked down at him, the tears streaked her cheeks and spattered onto her t-shirt. Then she twisted her hair into a frizzy knot and began chewing on it again, making him shift uncomfortably on his chair. He realized he'd have to sit on his good hand if he wanted to prevent himself from reaching out to stop her.

"I know I can't be asking you any favors -" she began hesitantly.

"No," he interrupted, placing his hand on the table to draw a line between them. "No, really, you can't."

He frowned again, disappointed more in himself than in her. He'd come with the expectation that _she'd_ offer him what he needed most - an explanation. Instead she was using him as a lifeline, which he really ought to have foreseen, had he thought this through.

Somewhere outside the room, two youngsters began shouting at each other before an adult voice cut them off sharply. Then a heavy door slammed with a reverberating bang that echoed down the hallway. He glanced up at the boldface sign posted beside the door.

_Loud noises are not allowed. If staff cannot determine who is making the noise, the entire facility will be declared a security risk and locked down. The lockdown will continue until the source of the noise is identified._

"Tell me what's on your mind," he said gently, turning back to face her. "I've come a long way."

Still sniffling, she glanced at him with red-rimmed eyes. "I really _miss_ him, Detective. I bet you think that's really _weird_, don't you? But he's my _only_ family. He's only 30 miles away, yet they won't let me go see him."

She paused to wipe her nose with the back of her hand, and he waited patiently for her to continue.

"For my eleventh birthday, he suddenly showed up with a Barbie doll. And then he just took off again. Can you even _imagine_? A _Barbie _doll? I was _eleven_. He just has _no_ clue whatsoever, does he?"

Feeling her expectant eyes on him, he realized that he didn't know exactly how the gift had been a grievance, either. "We guys don't know the first thing about Barbie dolls," he admitted. "I'm sure he thought he was making you happy."

"You think so?" Hope ached briefly in her voice before she burst into tears again. "Where _was_ he all my life, then?" she cried out, turning her eyes to him once again.

He sighed, feeling completely out of his depth once more. This was proving to be much harder than he'd expected, but not in the way he'd thought. He hadn't come prepared in any way to deal with _her_ pain. It hadn't even occurred to him that she could've been traumatized by their encounter as well.

He turned to stare at the woman sitting behind them, willing her to bring the box of Kleenex by her elbow. When she didn't budge, he rose wearily to his feet and snatched it from under her nose. She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a raised finger and an angry glare. Then he offered the box to the girl, who reached out to grab a handful and blew her nose loudly.

"Amy, I really can't second guess your father." According to the man's rap sheet, he'd neglected his daughter in favor of pretty much everything from petty larceny to armed robbery - and now murder. "I don't know him at all."

"Neither do I," she admitted, more to herself than to him. "But he's all I've got."

"Listen up. Your father won't be getting out anytime soon. You, on the other hand, will be _eighteen_ by the time you're released from here. That means you'll be an adult. Well, at least in the eyes of the law. Do you understand what that means?"

She nodded reluctantly. "I can do the math, Detective."

"That means no more foster care. You'll be standing on your own two feet. Making your _own_ decisions. You need to get used to the idea of going back to living your life without him."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry for yelling at you just now."

He took a long look at her. "Look, _I'm_ sorry I wasn't able to testify on your behalf. Not that it'd made much difference. I hardly remember anything."

"It's okay, really. It's not your fault I'm in here."

"You know, it would really have helped if you'd spoken up for yourself." He'd read the interview and court transcripts countless times. Not once had either of them offered an explanation for what they'd done. "You still don't want to talk about what happened?"

As she shook her head, he tried to read the guarded expression on her face. Something had happened of which she was deeply ashamed, but that didn't mean she shared her father's guilt. The man was living proof that shame and guilt didn't always go hand in hand.

The door suddenly burst open and two older girls walked into the room, before being ordered back outside by an angry voice. As they left, they turned their heads to stare open-mouthed at the two of them sitting by the window. The girl blushed when she noticed their inquisitive glances.

She pointed at his sling, her eyes brimming with tears again. "Now everyone here is going to think I did _that_ to you."

"Never mind them." Leaning back in his chair, he waved his hand dismissively. "_We_ both know you didn't."

She smiled as she blew her nose, taking heart from his calm confidence.

"What're you going to do now, Detective?"

"I'll be getting back to work in a couple of months' time."

She was still staring at his cast. "Will you be able to use your arm again?"

"I sure hope so. I need it."

"Does it … itch?" She wrinkled her nose and her fingertips began scratching her own wrist.

He laughed at the unexpected question, which confirmed what he wanted to believe about her. "It itches like crazy, actually. And _then_ some."

She broke into a hesitant smile, intrigued to hear him laugh for the first time. It was the pleasant, throaty rumble of a man who wasn't easily moved to laughter. She felt both encouraged and disheartened at the same time, wishing their paths had crossed under different circumstances.

Now he was watching her thoughtfully again. "Listen, from now on, you need to show everyone that you know right from wrong. Can you do that?" he asked her earnestly.

"Yes, I can do that." She stared down at the floor between her feet.

"Good. That'll get you a long way. In return, I'll come back to see how you're doing, okay?"

She nodded but kept her eyes averted, dismissing his words as insincere, just like her father's always had been.

He frowned, sensing immediately that she didn't believe him._ To hell with the rules_. He reached over and raised her chin to look her in the eyes. She needed to know that he was a man who kept his word. "I _promise_, Amy."

At that moment, a gunshot rang out and resounded between the buildings of the detention compound. The two of them exchanged startled glances, reminded of the horror of their shared nightmare in the parking lot. Instinctively her fingers reached out to grasp his hand tightly, and he squeezed hers back.

"What the _hell_ was that?" Without letting go of her hand, he stood up to get a better view through the barred window. His eyes scanned the bleak wintry landscape that lay beyond the razor wire fence. Snowflakes were still falling from the leaden sky above, and a grove of lonely pine trees already stood blanketed with fresh snow.

"Deer hunters," she explained. Her empty gaze turned to meet his. "It's open season, Detective."

"No kidding."

He sat down again, annoyed at himself for having been so readily unsettled. Obviously his arm wasn't all that still needed to heal before he was ready to resume work. He'd never be cleared for active duty if he couldn't deal with the sound of gunfire. Maybe he needed this meeting more than he'd realized when he'd set off.

"It's _okay_, really. It's _okay_," he heard the girl mumble under her breath, and she began rocking very slightly on her chair. With a frown, he wondered why her words were so strangely familiar. "It's _okay_, really."

Bewildered, he felt an odd sensation on his skin and looked down at their fingers, still intertwined. He'd assumed she'd grabbed hold of him for reassurance, yet now he saw that she was running her thumb soothingly across the back of his hand. _As she'd done once before._

When she noticed him watching her curiously, she pulled her fingers from his grip and let her hands drop down into her lap. Then she turned her eyes shyly away from him again. Still staring at her, he slid his hand up over his mouth and wondered what could possibly have made a teenaged girl react like this.

"Ahem."

The woman seated behind them suddenly cleared her throat, making him glance reluctantly at the clock on the wall. He sighed and looked back at the girl. Visiting hour was nearly over, yet there was one last thing he needed to clear up before leaving.

"Before I go," he said, "you need to tell me what's bothering you, Amy. About the _gun_."

She nodded grimly, having finally made up her mind to tell him. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the woman and slowly leaned towards him. Bracing himself against the table, he leaned forward and turned his head to offer her his full attention.

Her warm breath brushed against his ear. "I asked my father …" she began hesitantly. The words lingered for a few seconds while she plucked up her remaining courage. She inhaled deeply before continuing, "… to let me shoot you."

The color drained from his face and he felt light-headed again. He didn't know what exactly he'd expected her to say, but it certainly hadn't been _that_. At that moment, he couldn't recall having heard a more terrible confession in his career.

"And … what did he say?" he murmured back.

"That it would be _murder_."

He exhaled slowly, realizing he'd been holding his breath.

"Good for him. Your father was _right_."

His mind struggled to absorb the double shock of nearly having been killed by child - and then having had his life spared by a convicted felon. For a fleeting moment, he was revisited by the unnerving sensation of having his world turned upside down again.

"Would that have made me a … _murderer_?" Her whispered words tickled his ear.

He nodded gravely, staring down at the floor. "In the eyes of the law, definitely."

"And in _your_ eyes, Detective?"

Now he raised his head to look at her. "That … really … depends on why you said it."

She shook her head and her face closed like a book.

"I can't talk about it." Tears welled up in her eyes again, and she began twisting her finger through her hair. "Especially not with you. I'm … I'm sorry."

Suddenly he shared her apprehension, no longer certain that he _really_ wanted her to tell him what'd happened. Her words so far had already reminded them of their darkest hours together. Did he want to force both of them to relive them, as well? He realized that - for his own peace of mind - there was actually something he wanted _more_ than to uncover the truth about what had happened.

"That's quite all right, Amy. But you really need to talk to _someone_."

Undoubtedly the girl would benefit from counseling, and her father's reassurance that he loved her would bring her much-needed comfort. Yet he realized _he_ was the only person who could give her what she needed most right now. _Absolution_. At that moment, he resolved to give it to her without asking for anything in return.

"If I tell you that I forgive you, would that help any?"

"Yes, it would." She nodded gratefully. "It'd help a lot, actually."

"Good," he replied as he got to his feet. "In that case I forgive you. For whatever it was you did." Before leaving, he reached out and gently unwound the hair wrapped around her finger. "Now you can stop … doing … that."

Outside, a woman stood leaning against the Avalanche, her arms crossed while she stared down at the ground between her feet. As he approached, she glanced up and turned to face him expectantly. In the snow, he saw that her heeled boots had circled the car several times while she'd waited for him.

"You could at least have come inside, Stella. It's _freezing_ out here."

She shook her curly head with a frown. "I didn't want to risk feeling sorry for her. A foster kid ending up in a place like this. It's the _indifference_ that gets to me."

Earlier that year, a 14-year-old had suffocated while being restrained against the floor by staff who were "just doing what they were trained to do." The death had been ruled a homicide, but no one had ever been indicted.

"Fair enough." Recognizing her personal pain, he slid his hand around her nape and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"Are you okay, Mac?" He looked paler than when he'd gone inside.

"I'm fine."

He'd just turned to open the car door, when she reached for his lapels and pulled him back for a tender embrace. Their lips brushed lightly against each other while she let him reassure her that he was indeed all right. They stood for a moment with their foreheads touching, their frosty breaths mingling under their noses. Then they slipped out of each other's arms, and she walked around the car to get into the driver's seat.

"So how did it go?" she asked when he was seated beside her.

He grimaced as he tried to reach for the seatbelt behind him. "You're right. This place ought to be shut down." Giving up, he slumped back in his seat and glanced up at the sign above the entrance. "This isn't a _residential center_. It's a _prison_ for _children_."

"You regret coming up here?"

He shook his head. "No, it's not that."

By now, a few inches of snow hid nearly everything but the one-story buildings and the perimeter fence that encircled the compound. Windblown snow flurries began sweeping across the parking lot asphalt, creating dizzying swirls around them, white-on-black, black-on-white.

"Did you get some kind of closure?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"It's just such a mess. _She's_ such a mess. Her father has never been part of her life before, but now she misses him terribly."

"Her _father_?" Her eyebrows shot up and she began drumming her fingers angrily on the dashboard. "That good-for-nothing waste-of-space? _He's_ the reason she's in there now. If only he'd done her the favor of staying out of her life. And out of _your_ life, too."

He shrugged his shoulders and sighed deeply. "I know, I know. Go figure."

"You still don't know why she went along with it?" Sensing his frustration, she tried in vain to read the outcome of their meeting in his eyes. "Did she try to tell you she was innocent?"

"Not ... exactly."

He looked troubled for a moment, unable to bring himself to mention the girl's extraordinary confession. Ironically, he and the girl had to trust each other in order to untangle themselves from each other. To move on, he'd have to accept on faith that she was protecting him with her silence, just as she had needed his blind forgiveness.

"Everything I saw in there fits with her psych eval, Stella. She's _empathetic_. There's no doubt about it. And she certainly feels _guilty_ about what they did. But that doesn't mean she _is_ guilty. She may be his daughter, but there's no way she takes after her old man."

"So you think she's covering for him? But what's the point? He's a lost cause. He's been given life without parole. He'll never see daylight again."

"She still needs to know that she matters to someone. That someone cares about her."

"Mm." She smiled at him, wondering if he realized what he'd just said. "Well, _you_ cared enough to come 200 miles."

"She doesn't need _me_ to care about her, Stella." He sighed in exasperation at the thought. "She needs _him_. That's why she won't give him up."

Resting her hand against the steering wheel, she turned to study his face closely. Weary lines had formed around his eyes, lines that had not been there three months ago. What he'd been through had been harrowing, but the experience had also made him a little less single-minded, and a little more patient and self-aware. She'd been quick to cherish this as a newfound strength, not a sign of weakness. Although she had no idea what'd actually happened, she respected his willingness to give the girl the benefit of the doubt.

"And you honestly think he _really_ cares about her?"

"Actually, I do." His brows creased as he tried to recall the girl's exact words. "In fact, I'm sure I'd be dead right now, if he didn't. It just doesn't make sense any other way."

"You could be terribly wrong about her, you know," she suggested hesitantly. "If he cares that much about her, then maybe he's protecting _her_ with his silence. As I discovered for myself, she's a very convincing liar. I'm sure her years in foster care honed that skill."

He nodded grimly, staring unblinking ahead of him. "I'm not kidding myself here, Stella. I know she's still holding back on the truth." He shrugged his shoulders in resignation. "If she's fooling me twice now … well, then shame on me."

"No, shame on _her_. You're not easily fooled, Mac. I trust your intuition. In fact, I think you might be right," she continued, reflecting on the moment she'd first met the girl. "I keep thinking about that bath mat. That's what gave her away, you know. Perhaps her instinct all along was to protect you. If she was stalling her father, then she bought me the time I needed to find you. In that case she saved your life _twice_."

They watched a state van pull up in front of the detention building. Three huddled teenagers stepped out into the snow, wearing shackles on their legs and handcuffs on their wrists. Guards grabbed them under their armpits to help them shuffle up the steps towards the entrance.

"I'd really like to think so," he replied, his frustration mounting once again. "And yet she's willing to spend three years in a place where they treat kids like garbage. Where's the justice in that? She shouldn't be allowed to decide on her own punishment."

"And neither should you." She put an encouraging hand on his arm. "You're a righteous man, Mac Taylor. But you're not the _law_. You're only human. Just like the rest of us."

He turned to her with a sigh. "Stella, it's my _job_ to find evidence pertaining to a crime. How can I be expected to just let it go?"

"Yes, but not to _weigh_ that evidence," she reminded him. "That's what we have judges and juries for. And they've already found her guilty of aggravated assault."

He bit his lower lip, lost in his own thoughts for a moment.

"I'm going to make some calls," he finally declared, reaching over his shoulder for the seatbelt again. "See what I can do. Someone needs to keep an eye on her."

"If it makes you feel better." She leaned over to help him with the buckle. "C'mon, let me take you home."

Although it was only mid-afternoon, the sun was already dipping towards the western horizon. Here, an hour northwest of Albany, dusk would be falling rapidly. Yet despite the long drive ahead of them now, a motel was out of the question after what'd happened.

"Just before you disappeared," she suddenly recalled, "you said you were stuck in the Bermuda Triangle. Do you still remember?"

"That's right, I _did_, didn't I?" He cast his eyes down with a self-conscious grin, recalling the moment. "I guess I was being a bit melodramatic, huh?" When he looked up again, she saw that his cheeks had colored a little, lending his face the healthy glow she'd missed so.

She broke into a wide smile. "It was just so _unlike_ you. You scared the living daylights out of me."

"I might've been a little stressed out at the time. I seem to remember that dinner was on _me_."

She laughed. "So you made it up as an excuse? You thought I'd believe you?"

"Actually, I didn't make it up, Stella. It happened to be true."

Seeing the look of disbelief on her face, he leaned back, closed his eyes, and let out an affable laugh. Then he reached out and brushed the back of his hand softly across her cheek.

Smiling back at him, she guessed he'd gotten some kind of closure, after all. She threw a quick glance down at his cast, impatient for the day when he could use both his hands again.

"As it turns out, it was quite an understatement. I nearly lost you forever, Mac." She clasped his hand briefly in hers before letting go to start the engine.

What had happened between him and the girl three months ago had rippled out like rings in water, catching her and the girl's father in the rising swell. She was reminded of the dreadful moment when she'd found him - more dead than alive - in the company of the girl and her father. Ever since that day, she'd struggled with the irrational urge never to let him out of her sight ever again. She'd even needed gentle persuasion to let him go and battle his demons on his own today.

"You know what?" he said, watching her face. "I just realized I've never thanked you for finding me."

"Sure, you have. A thousand times, actually," she replied matter-of-factly as she drove across the parking lot. "I've kept count, you know."

"What, really? A _thousand_?" His eyes widened at the unexpected revelation. Then he raised a skeptical eyebrow. "In my _sleep_ or what?"

He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze, waiting for an explanation. Yet she merely glanced at him and laughed as she pulled onto the windswept county highway. The winter landscape loomed around them as they drove by lonely farmhouses and grain silos, and passed a snowy sign, "Prison Area. Do Not Pick Up Hitchhikers". Bracing himself against the pain, he leaned over to kiss the woman who cared enough to drive him 400 miles in the snow.

"Make that a thousand and one now, Mac."

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**Next up: Chapter 2. Super 8 Nyack, State Route 59, Nyack, NY **– How Stella found Mac

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Yay, a happy ending already - and it's only the first chapter! Unfortunately, I can't write a fluffy little epilogue, since it would've had to come _first_. Darn. ;D

So, do you think Mac is right about the girl? Hmm. Well, I'm not telling ... at least not yet. Let me know if you want me to continue. I'm a slow writer, but I should be able to manage four chapters.

**Note**: Tryon actually closed down in 2010, after the NY commissioner overseeing juvenile prisons - visiting the place for the first time - found it so depressing that she sat in her car in the parking lot and cried. :'C


	2. Super 8 Nyack

**Author's Note:** Welcome back to "Trash" and thank you for the kind reviews! Yes, it's a rehash of that old, familiar 'boy-meets-girl, boy-gets-himself-kidnapped, girl-must-save-boy-before-it's-too-late' storyline, but with a _twist_ this time – it's all happening backwards! I hope that'll keep you interested in reading (and hopefully reviewing, as well). ;D

Now rated M for suggestions of graphic violence (and a little bit of swearing) :C

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**Chapter 2. Super 8 Nyack, State Route 59, Nyack, NY**

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"Police! Open up."

A fist pounded impatiently on the room door, briefly drowning out the rain drumming against the motel roof. A moment later, the deadbolt was shot aside and a teenaged girl opened the door a few inches, leaving the chain drawn across the gap. She'd been briskly toweling her long, dark hair, but now she paused and lowered her hands.

A woman stood in the near-darkness outside, her curly hair glossy from the pelting rain. Her eyes stayed on the girl's as she reached up to pull a wet tress from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

"I'm Detective Bonasera of the NYPD," she explained for the sixth time in a row, having worked her way down to the last occupied motel room. Although her lips were set in a grim line, she managed to keep her voice carefully neutral. "This is Captain Walsh and Sergeant Johnson of the Ramapo and Nyack Police Departments."

On either side of her stood two uniformed men in dark blue Gore-Tex jackets. Rain was pooling on the brim of the older man's Stetson, and the hair of the younger man - a fairly tall drink of water himself - was spiky wet. Behind them, the motel parking lot glistened under the dim glow of a nearby streetlight.

"We're investigating the disappearance of a police officer."

She'd spoken calmly so as not to alarm the girl, yet her hand had trembled slightly as she'd flashed her badge. From her coat pocket, she retrieved two photographs and held them up in the slice of light that fell through the open door.

"He was last seen in the company of this man. Have you seen either of these men in the area?"

The girl took her eyes off the detective's face for a moment to glance down at the photographs.

"Sorry, no, I haven't." She shook her head and began to close the door.

The woman placed her palm against the door.

"Could I please ask you to take another look?"

"Sure."

With a nod, the girl leaned forward to peer at the photographs again, studying them more closely this time. The mugshot was a pretty terrible likeness of her father, who now stood behind the door with his gun aimed at the detective's head. The other picture was a formal-looking ID photo of the policeman, now lying unconscious on the floor behind one of the beds.

She straightened up and shook her head regretfully again. "Still no. Sorry."

"What's your name?"

"Kelly," she volunteered shyly. "Kelly Smith."

"Are you on your own, Kelly?"

"My parents are out getting us take-out for dinner." She flashed a quick smile. "I'm hoping for pizza."

"Do you happen to know the make or license plate of your car?"

The girl thought for moment before shrugging her shoulders. "No. It's a white rental. That's all I know." Her eyes were drawn back to the mugshot. "What has this man done?"

"He's wanted for questioning in relation to a homicide in Highland Mills."

A look of consternation crossed the teenager's face. "A homicide? You mean like in _murder_?"

"That's right." The woman frowned, picking up on the girl's sudden uneasiness. "Look, do have any way of contacting your parents?" She turned to point to the squad car, barely visible in the dark parking lot behind her. "Should we post an officer outside your door until they get back?"

She bit her lip for a moment before shaking her head bravely. "No, it's all right, really. I just spoke to them on the phone. They'll be back any minute now."

Satisfied, the woman nodded and turned to leave. Something inexplicable suddenly made her change her mind, and she turned back just before the door closed.

"That's a bath mat, by the way."

The door hovered open for a moment longer. "What is?"

She pointed down at the girl's hands, watching her face. "There. In your hands."

"Oh, you're right." The girl looked down with a sheepish grin. "I guess I wasn't wearing my glasses." Then she softly closed the door.

Stella turned around to face the two police officers with a deep frown.

"She's _lying_."

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

It had been an unusual twist of fate that had kept Stella and Mac out of touch with each other that day. She'd spent most of afternoon at the scene of a suspected murder-suicide under an elevated subway line in Harlem. The roar of heavy traffic and the overhead trains had made it difficult to concentrate on securing forensic evidence at the crime scene. So she'd finally resorted to borrowing earmuffs from utility workers busily cleaning out storm drains nearby.

She should've realized sooner that her phone had been suspiciously quiet, given that Mac had left her in charge of the Crime Lab, while he spent the day in Highland Mills. When she finally pulled it from the pocket of her coverall, she saw she had eight missed calls and four messages. She stared at her watch, dumbfounded that several hours somehow had passed unnoticed. _How could this have happened?_

All four messages were from Mac, grumbling about the team's whereabouts and sounding increasingly frustrated about being delayed. His last words were truly bizarre, making her worry that overwork and lack of sleep had finally gotten to him.

He really couldn't have picked a worse day to be away from the Lab. Evidently he'd already forgotten that the Messers were attending a final antenatal check-up together. And while Adam was spending the day in Manhattan, Kansas, following up on a case of mistaken identity, Don was in dental surgery after being punched in the mouth by a suspect. To everyone's dismay, Sid had begun doing autopsies while listening to Bartók concertos on his iPod, a birthday gift from his niece. Finally, Sheldon had called in sick after attending the party of a pretty nurse he'd once dated back in high school.

Over the years, Stella had often treated Mac to improvised homemade meals when they'd put in late shifts at the Lab together. A few weeks ago, though, he'd suddenly declared it was about time _he_ cooked dinner for her. He seemed to relish the planning of the meal so much that she'd wondered if he'd ever get around to actually inviting her. Finally she got him to check his calendar and together they'd set the date for tonight, which had made sense until he'd been called out of town on short notice. In his voice, she now recognized his unspoken concern that she'd think he was backing out of his promise. Yet that still didn't give him license to use the Bermuda Triangle as his excuse.

The phone suddenly rang in her hands as she was staring at it. She raised it to her ear with a grin, eager to ask him about his last remark.

"Mac, I only just got your messages –"

"Detective Bonasera?" The man's voice was deep and unfamiliar. "This is Captain Walsh of the Ramapo PD. I understand that Detective Taylor is a colleague of yours at the NYPD Crime Lab?"

"Y-yes, that's correct." Her own voice faltered for a moment as her mind raced in several directions at once. "Ramapo? That's near Highland Mills, isn't it? Has something happened?"

"We're located 20 miles south of Highland Mills. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but we believe Detective Taylor may have been seriously injured."

"I … I beg your pardon?" She put her finger in her ear to block out the noise, unsure if she'd just understood him correctly. "Did you just say he _may_ have been injured? Aren't you sure?"

"Forty-five minutes ago, our 911 dispatch received an open-line call from Detective Taylor's cell phone. From the GPS coordinates we found his abandoned vehicle in a parking lot close to the I-87, midway between Highland Mills and Ramapo. Witnesses in the vicinity reported hearing shouting followed by gunfire."

"I don't understand. What makes you think Detective Taylor was shot? Where is he now?"

"There was a blood trail across the parking lot, at the end of which we found Detective Taylor's badge, wallet and cell phone, which had been smashed. We think he was dragged to another vehicle. Our county coroner is at the scene looking for evidence as we speak, and we've got roadblocks set up at a five- and ten-mile radius, but so far we've come up empty."

By now Stella had dropped everything, signaled to the officer that she was leaving, ducked under the crime scene tape, and was already running down the sidewalk. She nestled the phone against her shoulder while she unzipped and pulled down her coverall, hopping on one foot as she untangled it from her legs.

"_Exactly_ how much blood have you found, Captain Walsh? Can you be sure it's Detective Taylor's? Has your coroner typed it yet?"

As she approached her car parked across the street, she raised her key fob to unlock it, sprinted across traffic, yanked the door open, and threw herself behind the wheel.

"No, I'm afraid he didn't get the chance. The blood's all gone now. I was hoping you'd assist our investigation with your forensic expertise."

She'd been busy typing 'Ramapo' into her satnav, but now his words suddenly reminded her of Mac's peculiar claim about the Bermuda Triangle. Had he actually been serious? _Was there something weird going on, after all?_

"What do you mean, it's _gone_?" she exclaimed. "How could the blood just suddenly disappear?"

There was a short pause. "Look," the senior officer replied patiently, "I don't know what the weather is like down in Manhattan, but it's raining cats and dogs up here now. The blood was simply washed away."

Stella blushed briefly as she glanced up at the leaden sky above her, which had been blocked from her view by the subway line earlier. Dark clouds were clearly moving in from the north, and the first few raindrops were already splashing against her windshield.

"What about Detective Taylor's own gun?" She revved the engine and pulled out into the steady stream of early evening traffic. "Have you found it? Could he have fired the shots?"

"We're still searching the area, but so far we haven't found a gun."

She glanced at the calculations on the satnav. "With any luck, I should be able to make it to Ramapo in about an hour."

By now the rain came down hard, hitting the streets with such force that it bounced back up as a fine mist. Darkness fell across the city as she crossed the Hudson into New Jersey and headed north on the highway towards Ramapo. She kept signaling to change lanes and pass the cars ahead of her, and even resorted to using the siren a few times. Twenty-five minutes later, as she was approaching Paramus, her cell phone rang in the holder on her dashboard.

"Detective Bonasera, we've got a lead." Her heart leapt at the careful optimism in the captain's voice. "A witness saw a black Ford station wagon with a broken taillight leave the parking lot shortly after hearing gunfire."

"Have you identified the owner yet?"

"As it turns out, we've already got an APB out on the vehicle in connection with a robbery in Highland Mills earlier today. Witness statements point to a Frank Katz, who owns a vehicle that fits the description."

"And what do we know about this Frank Katz, Captain?"

"He's bad news, I'm afraid. The penal code is this man's personal to-do list. You name a section and he's violated it. Altogether, he's spent about ten years inside. His specialty is armed robbery, though, not murder. I'll keep you informed if there are any updates."

The rain fell harder now, gushing over the windshield too fast for the wipers to keep up. Traffic was moving slowly in both directions, and she'd just glanced at her watch when her cell phone suddenly rang again.

"I've just gotten off the phone with the Nyack PD." It was Captain Walsh again, his words more guarded this time. "They've located the suspect vehicle parked in an overgrown vacant lot near Waldron Avenue, just off the I-87 in Nyack. The car was empty apart from pooled blood and a shovel in back."

"Pooled blood?" Stella threw an anxious glance at her phone on the dashboard. "And did you just say a _shovel_?"

"It was _clean_, Detective," he hastened to add, "_unused_. Apparently it still had a Wal-Mart price tag on its handle. We have to work from the assumption that Detective Taylor is still alive."

She was grateful for the small comfort of his words. "Why would Katz abandon his car?"

"There was a radio scanner inside, so he probably overheard the APB. Now he's either stolen another vehicle or he's still in the immediate vicinity. As you know, K-9 units are not an option in this weather, so I've offered the Nyack PD our assistance with the ground search."

Twenty minutes later, Stella had met up with Captain Walsh on Waldron Avenue and been introduced to Sergeant Johnson of the Nyack PD. Together with an officer, the three of them were assigned to a motel adjacent to the back of the vacant lot. Six of the rooms were currently occupied, yet only five cars were parked in the motel parking lot.

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

Now Stella was sitting beside Captain Walsh on the back seat of the Nyack PD squad car in the motel parking lot, listening to the rain pounding on the roof.

"You think that girl was _lying_?" the senior police officer asked her incredulously. "I don't understand. About what?"

"Did the Smiths pay cash or credit card for their room?" Stella asked Johnson, who sat in front beside an officer, drying his glasses with a handkerchief.

The sergeant rifled through the photocopied motel papers in his hand. "Cash."

"What exactly did she lie about, Detective Bonasera?" Walsh repeated patiently.

"She already _knew_ she had a bath mat in her hands. Now why would she lie about something like that?" Stella paused for a moment, her mind racing. "You're familiar with this motel, aren't you, sergeant? How many towels are there in the rooms?"

Johnson looked confused, unable to follow her train of thought. "Well, that's a family room with two double beds. That would mean eight towels. Four hand towels, four bath towels."

"So even if both her parents just showered, that should still leave _four_ towels for her. So why is she drying her hair with a bath mat?"

"No offense, Detective," Walsh interrupted, "but I'm pretty sure I've dried myself with a hotel bath mat before. It looks exactly like a towel, just thicker."

"No offense, Captain, but a teenaged girl wouldn't make that mistake. Especially if she has long hair." Seeing their utter lack of comprehension, she pointed to her own wet hair. "You can't wrap a bath mat around your head. It's too short."

"But she _said_ she wasn't wearing her glasses," Walsh replied, still unconvinced by her reasoning. "That makes perfect sense, doesn't it, if she was taking a shower?"

"No, it _doesn't_. She had no trouble looking at the photos without her glasses just now."

"She looked underage to me," Johnson suggested, trying to find another possible explanation. "Maybe she's got a boyfriend in the room with her. She'd definitely lie about _that_, if confronted by the police."

"That still doesn't explain what she's done with all of the towels." Stella bit her lip uneasily. "You know, I've got a bad feeling about this."

Walsh raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Detective, are you _seriously_ suggesting that Katz is holding the Smith family hostage inside there?"

"No, I think something else is going on here." Stella leaned forward to address the policeman sitting in the driver's seat. "Officer, would you check if Frank Katz has any children?"

The officer keyed the name into the tablet on his lap to retrieve the information. "He's got a daughter. Amy. She's been in foster care since she was three, though."

"How old would Amy be now?"

"Let me see. Fifteen."

"Do you have a physical description of Amy? Height? Hair color?"

"Five foot four. Blonde."

"The girl in that room clearly had dark hair," Sergeant Johnson quickly remarked. "It can't possibly be her."

"She could've easily dyed her hair, but she can't change her height," Stella replied. "The girl's chin was just above the door chain." She held her hand against the side of her shoulder. "Wouldn't you agree that makes her five four?"

"Detective Bonasera, none of the witnesses in Highland Mills saw a girl at the hardware store. As far as we know, Katz was acting on his own."

"She could've been sitting in the car waiting for him."

The captain took off his hat to rake his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry, but this all sounds a little far-fetched to me. I thought you Crime Lab people based your forensics on something a little more, well … tangible."

"Please listen to me. There _is_ no Smith family. I'm sure that was _Amy_ in there." She pointed to the room door, barely visible through the pouring rain. "And either they have Detective Taylor inside there with them, or they know where he is. We _have_ to get into that room now."

Walsh shook his head with a frown. "No, I'm sorry, I can't possibly go along with this. We can't be taking valuable time away from the search to follow up on your hunch. We can come back here later, once we've followed up on other leads."

"With all due respect, Captain Walsh, there _are_ no other leads right now. And we don't have time to wait. We have to act _now_ to have any hope of finding him alive. We _need_ to get inside that room."

"I don't know." He still looked dubious, but was impressed by her determination. "We'd have to wait for backup. May I remind you that you and I don't actually have jurisdiction here in Nyack, Detective."

Stella pointed to the door again. "Look, if I go back there and _prove_ to you that the girl is Amy Katz, will you search the room for me?"

"All right," he sighed, "but how do you intend to do that? You can't just _ask_ her if she's Amy. If Katz really is inside there, he'll be armed and extremely dangerous."

"Let me worry about that. You just get ready to break down the door on my signal." She leaned forward to address the policeman in the driver's seat again. "Officer, could you pass me a pen and a piece of paper? I've yet to meet a liar who can pass this test. The trick is not to give them enough time to think."

They watched her as she wrote a short question in large capital letters on the paper. Then the officer got out to retrieve three Kevlar vests and a battering ram from the trunk. The three men drew their guns and positioned themselves out of sight, while Stella walked up the room and knocked on the door again.

When the girl opened up, her eyes lingered for a split second on the sign in the detective's hands, before looking up into Stella's eyes as she spoke.

"Kelly, are you _sure_ you don't want an officer outside your door?" Stella tilted her head and used her most soothing voice. "We couldn't help noticing that your parents haven't returned yet."

"No, that's all right, really," the teenager replied with a grateful smile. "They'll be back any moment now. Thanks all the same, though." Then she softly closed the door.

The girl was good. _Very_ good. She'd managed to keep her voice gracious and friendly. And her calm gaze had never left Stella's to glance at the door while they'd spoken. Yet still she'd failed the test.

Stella backed away from the door and turned to signal to the three police officers. "It's definitely her," she told them in a low voice. "Be careful, though. He's standing behind the door."

While Johnson and Walsh provided cover, the officer stepped forward and swung the battering ram against the lock. The wood splintered as the door burst open, yanked the chain out of the wall, and toppled down onto a brawny, bald man, instantly pinning him to the floor. Walsh walked calmly across the door and bent down to swipe the gun from the man's hand, before they grabbed him under his arms and hauled him to his feet.

"Hands up against the wall. _Both_ of you," Johnson called out, grabbing the girl by her shoulder and spinning her around.

The girl screamed as the officer pushed them against the wall and patted them down. As he was being handcuffed, the man lashed out angrily and had to be restrained by Johnson.

"Frank and Amy Katz. You're under arrest on the suspicion of the murder or attempted murder of a police officer."

"Are you _sure_ we've got the right guy, Detective?" Walsh looked doubtfully down at the photo in his hand. "He looks nothing like this mugshot."

"Don't be fooled. _That's_ Amy," she replied confidently, pointing to the girl, "which means he _has_ to be Frank Katz."

Johnson leaned over the man, his mouth beside his ear. "Where's Detective Taylor? What have you done with him?" He flinched and narrowly avoided being spat in the face.

"Officer, call for backup so we can get these two back to your station," Walsh called out. "We need to have them questioned immediately."

"Look," Johnson exclaimed, pointing to a stain on the dark carpet. "Isn't that blood there on the floor?"

Their eyes followed the drops across the room towards the doorway to the bathroom. The knuckles of a man's clenched hand were just visible behind one of the beds.

Stella threw her hand over her mouth with a gasp and ran to him. Her breath caught in her throat the moment she saw the blood. So much blood. _His_ blood. Everywhere. She felt her world shatter like a mirror and the shards crash to the ground around her.

Mac lay on his back with his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted, and his head resting against his shoulder, as she'd often seen him do when they'd spent the night together. Yet this time bath towels were draped over his body like a funeral shroud. One of his arms lay up alongside his face, and the other was wrapped in a towel and nestled across his stomach.

"Oh, Mother of God!" She dropped to her knees to cradle his head between her hands. "Oh no, Mac, _please, _no!"

With her eyes shut, she curled forward and pressed her face against his, listening for his breath. His skin was pale and cold to the touch, like freshly fallen snow. She laced her fingers through his and squeezed them tightly, waiting for him to stir and wake up, as if from a nap. She knew her heart would never recover if he didn't open his eyes again. _A life should never be allowed to end like this._

Walsh stepped widely over his body and turned around in the tight corner, knocking over the bedside lamp. He glanced down at the injured man at his feet with a concerned frown and reached up to speak into his shoulder mike.

"We've found Katz and Detective Taylor at the motel. Call off the search and send the EMS over here _immediately_."

"Is he still breathing?" Stella looked pleadingly up at him. "I can't tell if he's still breathing."

Squatting down, Walsh placed a hand on the floor for balance and leaned forward on one of his knees. He held two fingers down against Mac's throat until he was sure he'd found a weak pulse. Then he placed his hand on the towels draped across his chest and waited until he'd felt it rise and fall. Mac's breathing was shallow and slow, mere wisps of air.

"I think so. It's hard to tell like this, but I think he's holding on."

He lifted the corner of a towel and peeled back the soaked hem of Mac's torn shirt. Warm blood welled up and squelched between his fingers, and he quickly let go to press both hands down onto Mac's stomach. Stella watched as his face creased with disgust and he threw a furious glance at the Katzes.

"How bad is it, Captain?" Suddenly she was grateful for his rock-solid calm, so exasperating just minutes earlier.

"It's real bad, Detective." He glanced up at her without removing his hands. "He appears to have been slashed. Repeatedly." He shook his head grimly. "I've never seen anything like this before."

He looked around the room, trying to assess the best course of action before the paramedics arrived.

"Give me a hand here, Sergeant," he said to Johnson, who'd just finished searching the bathroom. "There's just no room down here. Let's get him up onto the bed. Careful with that arm, though. On three, okay?"

Stella moved aside to let the young policeman grab Mac under his armpits and grapple with his lifeless body. As they lifted him up, he sagged heavily in their grasp and his head rolled forward onto his chest. His arm slid off his stomach and swung down like a broken pendulum. The towel unfurled and slipped down to the floor. When they lowered him gently onto the bed, the soft mattress yielded beneath his weight.

"His _arm_." Johnson clamped his hand over his mouth and took two steps backwards, suddenly looking very pale himself. "It looks like they tried to …" His words trailed off into a hoarse whisper.

"Sit down," Stella called out to the young man, pointing to the chair beside the bed. "Get your head down between your knees. We need your help here, Sergeant."

While Walsh pushed both of his palms down on the towels across Mac's chest, she spread her fingers wide and tried to cover as much of his stomach as possible. The minutes they waited for the EMS to arrive seemed to stretch interminably, and the seconds between Mac's breaths felt like hours.

Stella reached over to squeeze Mac's hand again to reassure him. His eyes remained stubbornly closed to the world as she searched his face for answers. _What happened to you?_ _How did you fall among thieves?_ A rough bruise was forming above his eyebrow and he had small scratches along his cheekbone. Turning his hand to look for defensive wounds, she saw that his knuckles were grazed from having been dragged along the ground. _A life should never be allowed to end like this._

She turned her head to look at the Katzes, momentarily forgotten, but whose presence in the room suddenly seemed intrusive. While Katz stood calmly with his head resting against the wall, staring down at his own feet, his daughter cowered beside him, throwing worried glances at the bed behind his back.

"How could _those_ two possibly have done _this_ to him?" Stella asked the captain.

He glanced up at her with a frown, misunderstanding her question. "I'm guessing they used some kind of knife or razor."

"There's a razor in the bathroom and blood spatter in the sink," Johnson volunteered weakly from the chair, still waiting for his stomach to settle. "I found a bag full of her clothes, soaked in blood. I think they were trying to clean up when we arrived."

"Officer, read them their rights," Walsh suddenly called out. "I want to hear what they have to say for themselves."

Then he raised his voice to a roar and pointed down at Mac's body. "What the _hell_ were you trying to do here? Dismember him? This man is still _alive_!"

Katz turned his head to glare silently at him, cold hatred in his eyes, before spitting on the floor. The girl began to shake and whimper helplessly. "It's not our fault, really. We didn't do anything. You _have_ to believe us."

The corners of her father's mouth turned down into an ugly scowl. "Don't say a word. You hear me, Amy? Not. A. Word. Remember that everything I did, I did for _you_. Don't you go sending your dad to prison for life now."

"Well, I've got news for you, Katz," Walsh interrupted angrily. "The old man in Highland Mills _died_ of his injuries. Given your priors, you're _already_ looking at life without parole."

Finally they heard a wailing siren approach the motel, and then flashing red and blue lights illuminated the room. Two drenched paramedics carrying medical bags strode in through the broken door and pushed their way past the Katzes.

Sitting down on the bed, one of them immediately placed a hand on Mac's chest to check his breathing. With the other hand, he pulled an oxygen mask from his pocket and strapped it over his mouth and nose. When he found the pulse in Mac's neck, he looked down at his watch to monitor his heart rate.

His colleague had a quick look under the towels. "Was he conscious when you arrived, Ma'am? Do you know what happened here?"

She shook her head, still baffled by the situation. "We came thinking he'd been shot."

"Did you find him like this?"

"No, we moved him up from the floor."

"What's his name?"

"Mac Taylor."

"Can you hear me, Mac?" He put his hand on Mac's forehead and gently pulled his eyelids open. "We're from the Nyack emergency services. We're here to help you."

Mac stared sightlessly at the ceiling as the man shone a penlight into each eye, noting that his pupils were slow to dilate. "Mac, are you still with us? Mac?"

"Let me know if you can feel this, Mac." He reached for Mac's hand and dug his fingernail hard into Mac's, but got no response. His eyes lingered on the nail bed for a moment, watching how long it stayed white. Then he cut up through Mac's jacket and shirtsleeve, before wrapping a Velcro cuff around his arm to check his blood pressure.

"He's pretty far gone. We'll need to stabilize him before we can move him. Please step aside in case we need to administer CPR on the floor."

The ambulance driver arrived with a gurney and looked over his colleagues' shoulders. "What've we got here? I'll call it in."

"Deep tissue lacerations to the abdomen, chest and upper arm, which also has multiple fractures. What's his blood loss?"

"I'd say about 25-30%," the other medic replied, sliding his hand slowly up along Mac's arm towards his elbow. "He needs immediate fluid resuscitation."

Together they inserted an IV needle, taped it down and hooked it to a bag of saline. Then one of them cut away the rest of his shirt and began to secure his broken arm inside a foam-covered splint. The other medic removed the towels and applied several gauze bandages, starting at the hollow of his stomach and working his way up to the tip of his collarbone. Finally, he ran his hands down Mac's sides to check for other injuries and found a couple of cracked ribs.

"I can tell you for a fact that this man hasn't been shot," he concluded as soon as he'd finished. "His arm is the main problem here. We're splinting it to reduce his blood loss, but we may not be able to prevent shock."

"Are you saying he might not make it?" Walsh asked him quietly.

"It's too early to say. We'll know more if he gets as far as the OR."

Watching over their shoulders, Stella reached up to brush away her tears. She saw him lying shirtless on the bed, his arms flung out, while strangers leaned over him to prod and tug at his lifeless body. She realized every breath he now drew might be his last. Could he hear them talking, making decisions about what might be his final minutes? _A life should never be allowed to end like this._

If Mac wasn't going to make it, she wished their last moments together were more intimate. Suddenly she had the irrational urge to ask everyone to get up and leave the two of them alone. Then she could sit quietly on the bed and hold him in her arms one last time, instead of watching him die in someone else's hands.

Feeling utterly helpless, she glanced over her shoulder at the Katzes again. "Did this make sense to you at the time?" she asked them, letting the tears flow freely down her cheeks. "Because it's not making any sense to me right now."

The girl turned to look up at her father, her own eyes brimming, as well. "What we did was wrong, wasn't it, dad?"

"Damned right it was _wrong_, young lady!" Stella cried out, as anger crept in to taint her sorrow. "How could you _possibly_ have thought otherwise?"

Katz whipped his head around to glare at her. "Don't you _dare_ talk to my daughter like that, you bitch!"

"Officer," Walsh stepped between them, his hands curling into fists, "have the Katzes wait outside in the rain. They turn my stomach."

As Johnson and the officer escorted them through the door, the paramedics suddenly motioned for the driver to bring the gurney closer to the bed.

"His blood pressure's dropping and I've lost his radial pulse."

"Start him on a dopamine drip. He'll be circling the drain if we don't move him straight away."

Together, they quickly lifted him off the bed, strapped him onto the gurney and threw a blanket over him. As they rushed past her, Stella reached out to grab Mac's hand for the third time, and was swept outside into the freezing rain alongside him. A piece of paper fell from her pocket and landed in a puddle, which bled the ink until the words faded and disappeared, 'Amy, is your father standing behind the door?'

* * *

**Next up: Chapter 3. Wal-Mart, State Route 59, Suffern, NY** – What Frank and Amy did

* * *

Yes, this was a rather grim chapter, I admit, but you already know the story ends well, so I figured that you could take it. :S

So, _now_ do you think Mac was right to forgive the girl? Hmm. I'd love to hear what you think. I'm _still_ not telling, of course, but I'll be asking you again at the end of the next chapter.


	3. Wal-Mart Suffern

**Author's note:** Thank you very much, everyone, for your reviews! I've been a bit hesitant about publishing this story, so it's nice to know that people are still reading. :D

So does the story make perfect sense to you so far? Hmm. Well, I'm actually hoping it _doesn't_. You should have a lot of unanswered questions, like what were all the towels for? You'll find out a lot more about Amy and Frank in this chapter, which will be a little hard to read, but probably not in the way you think ...

* * *

**Chapter 3: Wal-Mart, State Route 59, Suffern, NY **

* * *

"I can't believe what just happened back there!"

The adrenaline coursing through his veins had him pushing his foot down to the floor. His heart was still hammering in his ears, his jaw clenched tight and every muscle in his body tensed. He raised his hand from the steering wheel to stare at his shaking fingers.

"Just look at my hands, will you? It's like I guzzled a gallon of Red Bull!"

As he sped through the woods, the road disappeared into deep shadows behind the car. Twilight was slowly fading into dusk now, and a low growl of thunder could be heard somewhere in the distance. The sky had settled low under its own weight, bowing down before the oncoming rain.

She sat slumped in the seat beside him, with her knees pressed up against the dashboard and her hands clamped over her face. When he spoke, she spread her fingers wide and slid her wary eyes up to look up at him. Then she turned to glance nervously behind her, before slouching back down in her seat and wrapping her arms over her head.

"He's an _NYPD _detective!" He looked down at his daughter, wondering briefly if all teenagers sat like that. "You realize what that means, don't you? I bet he's _Major Case_!"

When his eyes fell on the purple bruise that circled her wrist, his anger was kicked up another notch.

"Did _he_ do that to you? I heard you screaming back there. Couldn't resist a pretty face, could he?" He pounded his fist on the steering wheel and glanced furiously up at the rearview mirror. "You're underage. It's _disgusting_. The bastard!"

She lowered her arm and studied her wrist miserably, reminded of her terror when the policeman had suddenly grabbed her.

"Well, I sure taught the son-of-a-bitch a lesson, didn't I?" He looked to her for a response.

She began twisting her hair tightly around her fingers, which he knew she did whenever she felt anxious. He was reminded of the first time he'd left her at the foster home, promising her that he'd be straight back. She'd just turned three and he'd fondly called her his little Goldilocks back then. Instead of waving goodbye, she'd stood forlorn between the Sisters at the top of the steps, fiddling with her golden hair. Two whole years had passed before he saw her again, but that hadn't been his fault, of course. It was never _his_ fault. It'd always been the damned cops who'd kept the two of them apart.

"You should buckle up, Amy. We'll get pulled over if anyone sees you sitting like that."

This morning he'd finally defied the courts and taken his daughter back into his own care, after twelve years of making empty promises. As her father, he knew it was his job to keep her safe, of course, but he hadn't grasped the full weight of his new responsibility until it'd nearly been too late. Suddenly things had gotten out of hand so unexpectedly that he'd almost lost her before he'd even realized she'd been in danger.

"Hey, I'm talking to you, Amy." He looked back at her again with a concerned frown. "What's eating you? Cat got your tongue?"

Her eyes widened and her hands flew over her mouth. "Dad!" she shrieked out loud, startling him. "Stop the car. _Now_!"

Half-expecting to see a deer on the road up ahead, he instinctively slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a screeching stop. Although she'd rammed her feet against dashboard, her body still lurched forward and her head thumped against the windshield. Yet before he had time to recover from the shock, she'd already flung open her door, leapt out of the car and bolted through the roadside bushes into the trees.

"Amy! No!" he cried out, his heart pounding loudly in his chest.

His world suddenly seemed to be spiraling out of control. Only seconds after vowing to take better care of her, he'd nearly killed his daughter himself. With trembling hands, he fumbled to untangle himself from his seatbelt before racing around the hood and stumbling through the undergrowth after her.

"Come back here, Amy!"

He found her on her knees in a clearing, doubled over with her arms wrapped around her waist. As he approached, her stomach suddenly lurched and her whole body shook as she vomited onto the ground. She remained on her hands and knees for a moment, coughing and gagging, before she sat up and took a few shuddering breaths. Her watery eyes met his gaze, silently pleading with him.

"Sheesh, I thought you'd done a runner." He squatted down beside her, relieved that she hadn't been seriously injured. "Feeling any better now?"

When her father had come to pick her up from the Sisters of Charity, she'd been far too excited to eat her breakfast. Driving through Highland Mills a few hours later, the two of them had to quickly leave town - thereby skipping lunch - after he'd been to visit the hardware store. Yet when he'd heard her stomach rumble, he'd made a point of pulling over at a gas station to buy food. Just moments ago, they'd been sitting in the car enjoying their first ever family picnic together, slurping Cokes and sharing pepperoni and ham sandwiches. And now, every mouthful she'd just relished in his company had come back up in a god-awful, stomach-churning mess.

"This is the worst day of my life," she gasped between sobs, turning her eyes up to the leaden sky above. "Please God, just let me curl up and die."

"Let me help you there, Goldie." He tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, trying to get a better look at the bump on her forehead. "You're still looking a little pale there."

She flinched at his touch and turned her back to him. "Don't call me that. My _name_ is Amy. Just go away and leave me here. I can't possibly get back in the car with you."

He glanced down at his watch and realized he had to keep them moving. It was risky, of course, but he decided it was necessary to call her bluff.

"So you want to stay here, huh?" He rose to his feet, his hands on his hips. "Out in the woods, alone. And hitchhike back to the foster home? It's getting dark and it looks like it'll rain real soon."

She glanced nervously around her, terrified that he'd actually leave her behind.

"Look, we can't undo what happened," he added gently. "We've just got to make the best of a bad situation."

She bit her lip before clambering wearily to her feet. "You're right, I guess ..."

With a sigh of relief, he reached out to pull her into a tight bear hug, but she squirmed in his grasp, unused to being hugged, and struggled to break free. They walked back to the car in silence together and he held the door open for her. Once she was inside, he reached over to fasten her seatbelt. A few drops already spattered the windshield as they drove off.

For some reason, she was reminded of the time she'd found a butterfly on her windowsill as a little girl. She'd pinched its delicate wings together and taken it outside, where it'd wobbled flightless along the ground until a bird had swooped down to snatch it up. Inconsolable, she'd confessed her wrongdoing to the Sisters, who'd patiently explained to her that she hadn't sinned against God's will. Instead of suffering a pointless, lingering death, the butterfly had become a meal for the bird, which was merely the natural order of things.

Whereas her father had just committed a crime, she knew in her heart she'd committed a _sin_. There was no doubt in her mind she'd burn in hell for what she'd done. Surely, it had been against God's will to have snatched the tattered butterfly from the bird's beak and put it back on her windowsill.

She stared blankly at the window wipers while he drove down the river valley and crossed the Ramapo, heading towards Suffern. Behind them, heavy rain had begun to fall from charcoal-colored clouds on the horizon. Lightning flashed briefly, painting the sky with an unearthly light. She kept twisting her finger through her hair, until she finally couldn't stand it any longer.

She turned and threw another uneasy glance behind her seat. "I think he's still awake, dad. His eyes are open now."

He sighed. "That probably means he's dead. I told you he wouldn't last long." He glimpsed a Wal-Mart sign in the dark and began changing lanes to get off the expressway. "Now we've got to find somewhere to bury him. We don't want anyone ever finding him."

"But I just saw him blink."

"Oh God," he groaned and reached out to tilt his rearview mirror up. "Amy, you're not making this any easier …"

"This is such a nightmare, dad. I can't stand it any longer. We _have_ to do something! He's got to be in absolute _agony_."

"There's nothing we can do for him. Besides, it's your own fault if he's suffering." His eyes scanned the junction ahead for the familiar blue-and-white sign.

"_My_ fault?" she repeated, although she knew in her heart that he was right. "How is this my fault?"

"He'd be dead right now if you hadn't fired the gun. What were you thinking?"

She blinked. "I – I guess I _wasn't_. It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time."

"Well, it sure as hell wasn't. You didn't really help him at all, did you?"

"I just can't get over what you did to him back there. It was … _disgusting_."

"I might've overreacted a little, but it was his own fault. He shouldn't have come looking for me. What did he say to you? Did he ask about the hardware store?"

"Will you _listen_ to me? He _wasn't_ looking for you. I keep trying to tell you."

"Then what was he talking to you for, Amy?"

"He … he … asked me to pick up my trash. He wasn't following you. He didn't even realize you were _there_."

"_What_?" His jaw dropped and he took his eyes off the road to stare at her. "He was citing you for littering? Are you _serious_? You mean he's _not_ Major Case, after all?" He tried to keep his disappointment out of his voice.

"I _tried_ to tell you before, but you wouldn't listen."

"Still serves him right," he huffed as he pulled into the near-empty Wal-Mart parking lot. "He should've minded his own business. He probably just used it as an excuse to talk to a pretty girl."

"Dad! He _wasn't_ coming on to me! How could you even _think_ such a thing!"

He parked in a dark corner farthest from the entrance, killed the engine, and turned to look at her. "Amy, remember this has nothing to do with us."

"You keep saying that!" she gasped. "But this has _everything_ to do with us! He was just trying to protect _me_, and then _you _go and attack him. I had to stop you from dragging him into the bushes. You wanted him to _die_."

"I … I got a little carried away, that's all. I'm so sorry you had to see that. It's my temper. I just can't stand cops."

"We should be helping him somehow. We owe it to him."

"What the man _needs_ is a doctor. _We_ can't help him, Amy."

"Well, then we should take him to a hospital. I'm sure it's not too late. We don't have to give our names. We'll just drive off before anyone asks."

"We're nowhere near a hospital. Now _you're_ not listening to me. He's not going to make it. I keep telling you. So stop saying we have to do something, because we _can't_."

"Maybe we could just leave him by the roadside. Let someone else find him. Can't we at least do that?"

"No we _can't_, Amy. Like I said, we can't risk leaving a witness behind. He's seen us together. I don't want you implicated in anything."

Her eyes narrowed. "Implicated in _what_? What happened at the hardware store?"

"Never mind."

"You said you just grabbed the money from the cash register."

"And I did_,_ Amy. I _did_."

She realized that she was a much more accomplished liar than him, despite having been raised by Catholic nuns while he'd spent his years in prison.

"He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," he added, more for his own sake than hers. "That stuff happens. Ain't nobody's fault. Not mine. Not yours. Not even his. Not that old guy at the hardware store, either."

"What old guy?"

"Never mind, young lady."

She squirmed in her seat, staring down at floor between her feet. "If we're not going to let him go, I think we should … you know ... H-he really shouldn't be suffering like this."

"What on earth are you talking about?" He looked at her with furrowed brows.

"You … you know what I mean." She pointed to the gun lying between her feet. "Look, I've still got his gun. If you won't do it, then I will. For _his_ sake. Please. This – what we're doing now – it just isn't _right_."

"He's not a _dog_, Amy! We can't just shoot him." He was surprised that his daughter, always such a sensitive soul, would suggest such a thing. "For your own sake, I can't let you go to prison for this man's murder. Don't worry, though. Time is on our side. All we have to do now is wait."

"S-so are you saying it's _not_ murder if we do nothing?"

He nodded. "Amy, we don't want this cop keeping the two of us apart for the rest of our lives."

She glanced around her. "What are we doing here at Wal-Mart?"

"We need to get a razor and a shovel. And some dye for your hair."

"A _razor_ and a _shovel_?" She shot him an apprehensive glance. "Wh-what are you planning to do?"

"We can't keep him, Amy. As soon as he's out cold, he's going into the ground. I don't want to be driving around with his body any longer than necessary." He glanced down at his pant legs and sighed. "I'm covered in blood, though. _You'd_ better go inside." He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and handed her a bill.

"But I've got blood on the sleeves of my jacket."

"Well, take it _off_ then."

Her mind grew increasingly numb as she took off her jacket and began to get out of the car.

"Amy," he called out behind her, "_don't_ talk to anyone and make me do something stupid. I've got boths guns with me now, remember?"

She'd already witnessed his furious temper once today and couldn't risk getting more people getting hurt. "Okay, dad."

Inside the store she wandered aimlessly down the brightly-lit aisles, unable to keep her thoughts focused on the task at hand._Should she slip out the back? _Cold air swept down from the air conditioning above, giving her goosebumps. _Or stay inside until they closed? _The freshly sliced turkey meat at the delicatessen counter made her stomach turn. _Should she contact someone? _A middle-aged woman stood staring down at her shopping list with a frown, ignoring her._Either way the policeman would die. _On her way to the check-out, she passed a young man stacking boxes of breakfast cereal and another sweeping up broken glass. _This wasn't her world any longer._

"Excuse me, miss. Miss? Hello? I said, _excuse_ me," someone called out behind her.

She turned around, already sighing with relief that someone had called her out. _The decision had been made for her._ Her face fell when she saw the cashier holding up a handful of money.

"Your change. You gave me a $100 bill."

When she got back outside, it'd started to rain heavily and she dashed across the parking lot to the car. She raised the rear door and pushed the shovel alongside the duffel bags in back. For a moment she bit her lower lip and studied the unmoving form lying in the shadows, grateful not to see the blood. _Was he still alive?_ She tried to quash the butterflies still fluttering in her stomach. _Did she really want him to be? _

"Amy, close the door and get back in the car."

She walked around the car and drew a deep breath before opening the side door to peer into the gloom inside. She'd have to pull herself together if she was going to do this. Once her eyes had adjusted to the dark, she saw that he lay with his eyes closed now, as if he were asleep. _Maybe he was still alive_. Grabbing hold of the seatback, she clambered resolutely over their bags and crawled over to kneel beside him.

"Amy, what _are_ you doing?"

Ignoring her father, she kept her attention on the policeman sprawled out before her. Now she noticed that his eyelids were flickering restlessly and heard his breaths come in shallow gulps. _He was still alive. _She placed her hand on his throat and was relieved to feel a steady heartbeat beneath her fingertips.

The unexpected warmth of her touch made him groan groggily and open his eyes to look around him, dazed_._ He tried to raise his head to see where he was, but the searing pain had sapped his strength and was letting a numbing coldness seep inside him instead. Gritting his teeth in agony, he slid his hand up to clutch his stomach. _He was so cold._

"H-how do you feel? Can you talk?"

She waited patiently for a reply, but his eyes had already lost their focus and his head lolled against her knee. For a moment she wondered what she could possibly do to help this man. Her father had been right, of course; only a doctor could save him now. She'd just wanted him to feel he wasn't alone, but so far he hadn't even noticed her presence. Trembling, she reached out and tried to lift his hand from his stomach, only to find that he was still holding on tightly. Instead she leaned over him to take a closer look at his injured arm, and discovered that he was lying on his other hand.

"Look this way. Look up at me," she coaxed him softly, watching as his eyes slid around to locate her voice. Already he looked much paler than when they'd first met, with dark shadows forming under his eyes. She held her palm against his face while she pointed down at his hand. _He was so cold._ "Tell me, can you feel your fingertips?"

Through the haze of pain, he suddenly caught sight of her figure looming over him. He flinched instinctively and his thoughts scrambled in alarm. Blinking several times, he tried to bring her face into focus to understand what she wanted from him. Then when she spoke again, he struggled to slow down his breaths to hear her words clearly.

"Your arm. It's all twisted. I'll be real careful, okay?"

He tried to resist, but she'd already reached across his chest and was rolling him back onto his shoulder. As she slowly drew his broken arm out from under him, a jolt of agony shot through him and he inhaled sharply. Then she raised his arm and carefully draped it across his chest.

She heard a sound from deep within his throat and panicked when she realized he'd stopped breathing.

"Breathe! You're forgetting to _breathe, _Detective."

With his eyes clenched tightly shut, he arched his shoulders and finally let out a choked gasp. Then a long shudder racked his whole body, sending him into an uncontrollable shiver. She clutched his icy hand until his trembling had settled and he blinked up at her again. When she saw the emptiness in his eyes, she realized that the chill creeping into him would soon claim his life, if she didn't find a way to keep him warm.

Bracing herself against the seatback, she wedged herself down into the narrow space between his body and their duffel bags. She turned to stack two bags behind her back for her to lean against. Then she slid one arm under his neck and the other under his shoulder to pull him up into her lap, so that she could stretch her legs out under him. His weight felt heavy and lifeless against her body, and he slipped as she tried to bundle him closer, drawing another groan from him.

"What exactly do you think you're doing back there?"

She heard the reproach in his father's voice, but knew he didn't have the courage to come back and have a look for himself.

"I'm just trying to make him more comfortable."

"Well, it sure doesn't sound like it," he grumbled, keeping an eye on her in the rearview mirror as he started the engine.

"I'm soaked through from the rain," she called out as they began driving across the parking lot. "Could you please turn up the heat?"

He didn't reply, but she heard him fiddle with the dials on the dashboard. Then there was a crackle of static as he switched on the police scanner and ran the frequencies.

As soon as she was sure she'd felt the full effect of the heater core, she called out again. "Dad, could you pass me my jacket? I'm still _freezing_ back here."

"Get out of your wet clothes then," he replied gruffly, knowing fully well that she couldn't. Yet still he snatched her jacket from her seat and passed it over his shoulder to her.

When she'd tucked the jacket around the policeman, she slid her hands back under his arms and clasped them around his waist. Now he lay slumped across her body, his head resting against her shoulder. By sliding her feet closer, she managed to draw her knees up against his back to keep him in place. Then she lowered her arm slightly, tilting his head back so she could look down into his face.

"I'm _so_ sorry," she whispered in his ear, "but he's not going to let you go."

Even with his eyes closed, his world kept spinning and he was desperate for something to keep him grounded. He felt the heat of her breath brush against his skin, but his eyelids were too heavy to open. For a while, he listened to the rhythm of the rain drumming on the roof above, the whoosh of window wipers somewhere behind his head, and the deep drone of the motor down below. His senses were telling him he was lying inside a car, but that didn't tally with the soft warmth that now seemed to enclose him from all sides.

From the way his body was tensed, she could tell that his awareness of reality kept slipping in and out, mostly out. For a long while, he seemed to stray somewhere between waking and sleeping, but then his eyes suddenly flew open, looking as alert as when they'd first met. She watched his gaze travel down along their entwined bodies and up around the back of the car, before settling on the shovel resting against his leg. When he saw the price tag still attached to its handle, he blinked several times before turning his eyes warily up towards her.

"Don't …" he whispered hoarsely.

"It's _okay_, I won't."

At that moment, she was convinced her heart would break. Her father had been right again, of course; it was _her_ fault he was suffering needlessly. No one had ever done anything like what he'd done for her before, and now he was going to pay for saving her life with his own. Her mind scrambled to find the right words to comfort him, to comfort herself. As always, she prayed that everything would somehow - miraculously - work out in the end, if only she could figure out how to undo the damage she'd done.

"It's _okay_, really. It's _okay_," she murmured quietly, holding him close and stroking the back of his hand with her thumb. Then she rocked him very softly in her arms until his eyes drifted up under his eyelids again. "It's _okay_, really."

To her surprise, she found herself withholding her breath as she waited for him to regain consciousness. Now it felt like her fate was tied so closely to his that she didn't dare to breathe until he did, afraid that the gentle rise and fall of her chest would somehow break his fragile hold on life. Gradually she started to feel giddy from his weight bearing down on her, and was relieved when he finally began to stir. Yet when his eyes flickered open - instinctively locking onto hers - she suddenly felt fearful for his life all over again.

"You need to stay awake for as long as you can, okay?" she urged him quietly. "Don't close your eyes again if you can help it." Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. "Otherwise my father will _kill_ you."

Although she wasn't sure he'd understood her, his eyes didn't leave hers.

"Would it help if I kept talking to you?"

He stayed silent, but she could've sworn that she felt his head move slightly in an attempted nod. So she nestled him in the circle of her embrace and began to tell him rambling stories from her life. As evening slowly slid into night, she ran her fingers softly through his hair and told him everything that came to her mind, right from her misadventure with the butterfly up until her father's arrival at the foster home that morning.

The rain kept lashing furiously against the windows, and by now the air inside the car had grown heavy with humidity. Her arms ached with the strain of holding him, and her own body was cooling rapidly from being wedged between him and the cold car floor. Feeling drowsy herself, she leaned her head back against the bags and closed her eyes as she continued talking. After a while, she gradually felt him getting restless and noticed that his breathing had become erratic. _Something was wrong._

Her heart sank when she realized she was losing her battle to keep him warm. Now he was shivering again and a cold sweat had broken on his brow. Heavy breaths escaped his lips as he fought against the chill that gripped him. When she raised the jacket, she saw that he was still holding his stomach, which seemed to be costing him all the effort in the world. His hand shook with exhaustion and kept sliding off, making him wince.

"Here," she said, moving his hand aside to press hers firmly down in its place. "Let me help you there."

She reached behind her to unzip one of the bags and drew out a pink cardigan to tuck under her hand. Then she kept pulling out more and more clothes to pile onto him until the bag was nearly empty. Now a tiny face with long blonde hair and painted eyes looked up at her from inside the bag. She blinked at the Barbie doll for a moment, before grabbing it to hold up before his face, desperate for something - _anything_ - to distract him.

"I bet you're wondering how old I am now, right?" She smiled warmly down at him, making sure to catch his eyes. "Well, I'm too old for _toys_. Obviously. But this doll is real special to me. My father gave it to me."

Although she could tell he wasn't listening, she continued in the same soothing voice.

"Look, if I push down here on her necklace, her shoes and belt light up. Pretty cool, huh?"

Outside, rain still streaked the car windows, blurring the rest of the world from their view. Yet now the doll in her hand cast a dim purple glow inside the back of the car. For a moment, they were both mesmerized by the little light that illuminated their faces and threw a large shadow behind them.

After a while she felt him relax in her arms and his shuddering slowly cease. As his breathing finally eased up, his head rolled back over her arm and a sigh spilled from his lips. She kept the unconscious man cradled in her arms, waiting for him to wake up again, but this time his eyes remained closed. Shivering herself now, she was actually thankful he was out for the count, for his own sake. He'd done his best to hold on for as long as he possibly could, just as she'd asked him to. _Now the rest was up to her._

"I'm still cold, dad," she cried out miserably. "So very, _very_ cold. We've got to stop somewhere for me to warm up."

"I was just thinking the same, Amy," her father replied over his shoulder, to her immense relief. "I just heard an alert on our car on the scanner. I'm getting off the freeway right now."

She heard the indicator ticking and turned to look into the glare of oncoming traffic on the slick road ahead. The rain was now a continuous sheet of water flowing over the windshield. When her father slowed to approach a stoplight, she finally saw the contours of trees and buildings alongside the road. At a brightly lit gas station, he turned to drive past several fast food restaurants and strip malls with empty parking lots. Finally he pulled into an overgrown lot and rolled to a halt behind a grove of large trees.

She glanced around in the darkness and recognized a glowing yellow-and-red sign, just visible up above the treetops. "Let's get a room at that motel over there. I really need a hot shower."

"Good idea. We've got to lay low until I can get ahold of another car." His eyes were on her in the rearview mirror as he switched off the engine. "Thanks for getting the razor. Once we're inside, I'm going to shave off my hair and my beard. They won't be looking for a bald man. And you've got to dye your hair, in case you were seen in Highland Mills."

He pushed his door open and stepped out into the downpour, which instantly soaked him through to the skin. With a furtive glance over his shoulder, he rounded the car and raised the rear door for his daughter. She carefully slid out from beneath the policeman and crawled outside to stand beside her father.

"Oh my God," he gasped out loud, staring down at her clothes. "Amy, just _look_ at yourself! What were you _doing_ back there? Now we've got to get you cleaned up."

Raising her voice above the roar of the rain, she turned to point back at the car. "_He_ has to come with us inside. We can't let him die alone in the car. It's _freezing_ out here."

"What! Are you insane?" He threw a guarded glance at the injured man and winced. "There's just _no way_ we're taking him with us into the motel!"

She was shivering and rain gurgled in her mouth as she spoke. "Wh-what difference does it m-make if he dies out here or inside there with us?"

"We'll get _caught_ if we try to bring him inside with us, Amy," he cried out in exasperation. "_That's_ the difference!"

Now she pointed through the trees towards the motel. "Look, there are only a few c-cars in the parking lot. No one will see us. We can park right in front of the room door."

"No, no, no! I already told you _no way_! It's just too risky."

She pulled back the hair plastered across her face to look him in the eyes. "C'mon, do it for _me_, dad!"

"_Please_ listen to me, Amy," he told her earnestly, gathering her wet hands in his own. "There's no _point_. He won't make it either way. You're going to have to start facing facts."

Letting go of her again, he kicked the ground a few times, wrenching a soggy clod of dirt free. Then he retrieved the shovel from the car and positioned his foot on its shiny blade. When he glanced up at his daughter, he noticed the growing look of horror on her face.

"You get into the front seat, Amy." He pointed towards their car. "I've got unfinished business back here. You don't need to be seeing this."

She gasped, shaking her head. "You c-can't do that. It's not right. He's still alive!"

"Don't worry, he won't know the difference. We can't risk someone finding his body in the car in the morning."

"He c-comes inside with us! Otherwise I'll run away and I'll never come back."

"Damn it, Amy! Enough is enough." Setting the shovel aside, he yanked the gun from his belt and held it up. "Look, I'll _shoot_ him if you don't start doing what I tell you. It's what you wanted before, right? We'll get _caught_ if we bring him inside there. There'll be _blood_ and _fingerprints_ and all that stuff. I'm doing this for _us_, don't you understand that? _He_ is going to keep us apart!"

Twisting her fingers through her wet hair, she turned to search the rain-swept surroundings for help. In the distance, a car was driving slowly down the empty street, its dipped headlights barely visible through the haze.

"Now don't make me do anything stupid," he growled behind her back.

Her hands curled into fists of frustration as she turned back to stare at him. He'd already done so many stupid things in his life and she'd forgiven him every time. Now she had to stop him before he crossed the line into the unforgivable. Glancing at the unmoving figure in their car, she realized she was running out of time. It was risky, of course, but she decided it was necessary to call his bluff.

Taking a deep breath, she placed her hands defiantly on her hips. "Okay, go ahead then. Just do what you have to do, but you'll _never_ see me again!" She waved her hand dismissively. "I really mean it, dad. When you go back to prison – and you _will_, sooner or later – I won't come to visit you. _Ever_. _Again_. I'll forget you ever existed."

Over the years, he'd watched the Sisters of Charity frown in disapproval whenever they'd accompanied her prison visits, and he knew they'd kept trying to discourage her. Yet she'd always insisted on coming, faithfully encouraging him and telling him she loved him, whenever his spirits had been low. _His lifeline_. He suddenly realized he couldn't live without her.

"If you just do me this one favor, I'll _always_ stand by you, dad," she pleaded with him. "I'll never say a word to anyone about what happened today. _I promise_."

If they brought the cop inside the motel now, he risked going back to prison for the rest of his life, but if they _didn't_, he'd lose his daughter forever. It really wasn't that difficult a decision to make. His shoulders already slumped in defeat, he wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Oh, _Amy_ …"

* * *

**Next up: Chapter 4 - Central Valley Police Department, State Route 32, Highland Mills, NY **- What happened when Mac and Amy first met

* * *

How's that for a _twist_: this story actually has _two_ girls trying to save the boy. :D And yup, you guessed right,_ that's_ what the towels were for: to keep Mac warm. So was Mac right to forgive Amy, after all?

So does the boy just lie around and let the girls do all the hard work? Nope! In the next and final chapter, Mac gets to show us he's the real _hero_ of this story. ;D Let me know if you're up for the finale - it's about time you found out exactly what happened when Mac and Amy met.


	4. Central Valley Police Department

**Author's note:** Thank you one last time for your kind reviews - and a very special thanks to those of you who sent impatient/encouraging PMs asking for the next update - I really appreciated that! ;D

So, what exactly happened when Mac and Amy first met - and why are they still traumatized three months later – perhaps you've already guessed? Well, I've actually left a few clues for you, hidden in plain sight.

The _story title_ is the main clue - why would Mac tell Amy to pick up her trash? It sounds like a rather, well, _unheroic_ thing to do, doesn't it? Hmm. And then there are the _chapter titles_ - if you'd looked up the addresses (and I'm hoping you _haven't_), you'd know by now that Mac and Amy met in a very unusual location.

Never mind, all will be revealed in this final, first chapter! ;D

A little warning here: the graphic violence I've been hinting at all along – well, that all happens _now_ … :O

* * *

**Chapter 4: - Central Valley Police Department, State Route 32, Highland Mills, NY**

* * *

"Something wrong with your phone, son?"

Mac Taylor blinked up at the sheriff, looking for a moment like a schoolboy caught doing something he shouldn't. Not for the first time today, he'd glanced down at his phone and let out a sigh of frustration. He'd meant no disrespect, of course, but he found it increasingly difficult to stay focused on their small talk. Reports had to be piling up on his desk at the same dizzying rate that emails were flooding his cell phone right now.

"I don't seem to be able to reach anyone back at the Crime Lab."

The sheriff leaned back in his swivel chair, stroking his bottlebrush mustache thoughtfully. His guest was sitting on the edge of his seat, his elbows on his knees, studying his phone with an ill-concealed frown. He'd hardly touched his lunch and had set aside his homemade apple cobbler after one polite bite. Somehow the man's job seemed to have accompanied him upstate for the day, making him tense and restless.

The old man pointed to the big, black phone on his desk. "You're welcome to use my landline. It's very reliable, I can assure you."

Despite what could only be a punishing schedule, the detective had readily agreed to come to Highland Mills at very short notice. This morning he'd provided his expert testimony with calm deliberation and had been untouchable during the first round of cross-examination. Yet beneath the man's professional demeanor, the sheriff had sensed a weariness that had nothing to do with overwork or a lack of sleep. He tried to imagine what it must be like to be confronted daily with violent crime in a city that never slept. Surely dealing with the human misery left in the wake of robbery, rape, arson and murder had to have taken its toll?

"Thanks, but the phone's not the problem. I keep getting everyone's voicemail."

Mac normally thought of himself as a patient man, but two different worlds had evidently collided today, sending him off into another time dimension. For longer than he cared to remember, he'd been pulling double shifts at the Lab and working into the early hours of the morning. Most days he was lucky to eat a sandwich at his desk and gulp down his coffee on the way to the elevator. Yet now they were on a two-hour lunch recess, taking _yet_ another break from proceedings that would've been settled quickly in chambers, back in Foley Square.

"When the cat's away, the mice will play, eh?" the sheriff suggested affably.

He offered the older man a weak smile. "Something like that, yes."

"It's good of you to have taken the time to come up here today. You're giving the family some much-needed closure."

"Well, I'm glad I could make a difference." He nodded gravely. "I'm just sorry I didn't have better news for them."

He rose from his chair to stretch his legs and threw an absent glance at the street outside the window. He'd intended to spend a few hours at the Lab before dinner, but soon it'd be too late to beat the rush-hour traffic back to Manhattan. Leaning against the wall beside the window, he let his thumb slide through his speed-dial numbers once more.

"Stella, I'm running late, but I want you to know I haven't forgotten our … appointment tonight."

"Flack, I'm assuming you made the arrest. Let's talk as soon as I get back."

"Sid, we have to reschedule. Leave your autopsy report on my desk. I'll prep for the press briefing between meetings tomorrow morning."

"Danny, where's Lindsay?"

"Hawkes, you've been selected for a random dole test." He glanced down at his watch. "Didn't your shift begin two hours ago?"

"Lindsay, where's Danny?"

"Adam, how can you be at Kansas State University? Which Manhattan did you think I _meant_?"

He bit his lower lip and toyed with the phone for a moment, wondering what on earth was keeping everyone from answering his calls today._ A network failure? _Not very likely._ An emergency?_ Heaven forbid. _A coincidence? _More likely. His brows furrowed. Or had Stella just decided to give the lab rats the day off, now that the cat was finally out of town?

When he looked up, he noticed the sheriff watching him from behind his desk with a concerned frown.

"Sounds to me like you live your life in the fast lane."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Mac shook his head. "I seem to be gridlocked most of the time."

The old man shifted in his seat. "You run a pretty tight ship, don't you, son? Don't delegate much."

"I suppose not." He wondered what his staff would say if they knew their boss was spending his day being addressed as 'son.' "Somehow, it's easier that way."

"That's an awful lot of responsibility for a man your age."

"I can manage." He sat down with another sigh, unable to resist scanning through his emails once again. "I've been doing this for quite a while now."

"And you have a reputation for excellence, Detective Taylor. That's why I invited you up here today." The sheriff put his hands together and studied Mac's face across his fingertips. "You know, I'm not sure I could do you job. You obviously work to a very tight schedule."

Mac let his eyes roam around the quiet office, lingering for a moment on the hands of the wall clock, which seemed to be standing still. "Well, to be honest, I don't think I could do _yours_."

"Are you sure?" He smiled, a twinkle of mischief in his gaze. "Think about it. How would you like to have my job?"

His eyebrows arched in surprise, Mac finally slipped his phone back into his pocket. "You … want to trade jobs with me?"

The sheriff laughed. "Go ahead, humor an old man. We've got plenty of time before we're due back in court. Imagine you were a small-town sheriff."

"Me, a _sheriff_?" He placed a finger on his chest and shook his head in disbelief. "I'm sorry, my mind has already drawn a complete blank."

"You know, I find that hard to believe. I think we just need to clear your head a little."

Mac tried to rub the fatigue from his eyes with his fingertips. He'd never had the time for games but the sheriff had been such a kindly host, he couldn't possibly refuse now. "Pardon me, but I don't quite see the relevance …" He looked up and studied the older man's expression, trying in vain to guess his intention.

"C'mon, let's go outside." The sheriff had already rounded his desk and slipped his hand under Mac's arm, pulling him up off his chair. "You obviously need some fresh air."

They emerged from the little building that doubled as town hall and police station onto a raised porch overlooking the main thoroughfare of the little town. Mac's eyes were automatically drawn to the black Avalanche parked alongside the courthouse across the street. He hadn't had time to fill the tank on his way up and made a quick mental note to stop for gas on his way back.

"Here." The sheriff pushed a mug of coffee into the younger man's hands. "Go ahead. Take a couple of minutes and imagine my badge pinned to _your_ shirt."

Mac glanced at him with a hesitant smile. "You're actually serious about this, aren't you?"

"You betcha." The old man gave him a quiet nod and leaned back against the wall behind them.

Feeling the sheriff's eyes on him, Mac self-consciously leaned forward and rested his elbows against the wooden bannister. He cradled the heavy mug between his fingers and took a long, slow sip, letting the warmth seep down into his chest. It'd been a long time since he'd drunk coffee from anything other than a Styrofoam cup.

First he turned his eyes to the overcast sky above. The clouds were painted with heavy, gray brushstrokes, but it was still a fine - if somewhat blustery - autumn day. The trees had just begun to shed their brilliant, firecracker-colored leaves, which twirled in little eddies along the sidewalk. Closing his eyes for a moment, he let the wind slap against his face and ruffle through his hair. He took a deep breath and thought he could almost smell the earthy scent of oncoming rain.

He looked down the busy street, watching the slow roll of traffic in both directions. Reminded of his drive home again, he fought the impulse to pull the phone from his pocket. Instead he began to study the faces of the pedestrians walking along the sidewalks. Most appeared to be preoccupied with running errands, their jacket collars turned up against the chill in the air. Many glanced briefly at him before smiling at the sheriff, who tapped two fingers amiably against the brim of his hat.

There'd be about five hundred families in a town this size, he guessed, giving him a fair chance of recognizing most residents by sight. That meant he could reasonably expect to know the perpetrator of every DUI, domestic disturbance or burglary by name. Yet this also meant that - even off-duty and out of uniform - his presence alone would silence conversations all over town, from the sports grill to the local golf club. On the upside, however, statistically there'd only be a homicide once every five-six years, and the local coroner would spend most of his time certifying non-violent deaths. So any victims he'd be dealing with would most likely still be very much alive, making a welcome change from his present job.

Where would he live if he moved to Highland Mills? Instinctively he picked the handsome, colonial-style house across the street, drawn to the prospect of a 30-second commute. He didn't know much about carpentry, painting or plumbing, but he was fairly skilled with his hands and not too old to learn yet. His eyes wandered down the sidewalk and located a hardware store, just two blocks south. He glanced at the clapboard house again, already imagining himself walking back with an armful of supplies.

Yet would he really want a view of the courthouse from his kitchen window? Changing his mind, he decided he'd prefer an out-of-the-way property closer to the state park instead. He'd probably have to spend most of his weekends mowing the lawn and whatever else people did to their yards around here. Would a hardware store sell lawnmowers? Looking back, he noticed the 'closed' sign in the store window for the first time. He glanced down at his watch with a frown. _How early did the stores close in this town?_

What else would he do with his time, when he wasn't actually working? Much to his chagrin, his mind was blank once again. He searched the signs along the street for inspiration, unwilling to admit his defeat just yet. An arts and crafts fair? He shuddered. _Never in a million years_. The public library? _Maybe when he'd retired_. The Roadhouse Bar and Grill?_ Not his crowd._ Golf? _He'd rather watch paint dry. _The Appalachian Trail?_ That's more like it. _He strolled to the end of the porch and glanced curiously around the corner, broadening the sheriff's smile behind his back. A sign advertising the Woodbury Field & Stream Club reminded him of his grandfather taking him fishing on the Lake as a young boy. _The way life should be. _

Now a curly-haired woman strode briskly past him, pushing a stroller with a sleeping toddler. The thought of bringing up children in Manhattan had always daunted him, but didn't seem entirely impossible up here. Yet try as he might, he found it hard to imagine Stella settling down somewhere like Highland Mills. _Would she be his deputy?_ He smiled. _More likely he'd be hers_. In fact, in one of endless possible parallel universes, he could spend his time perfecting his fly-casting skills while she single-handedly cleaned up crime in Central Valley.

It occurred to him that he'd always pictured Stella as a brilliant burst of white-hot energy, while he thought of himself as more of a rock-solid mass of dark matter. Yet physics had taught him that energy could be transformed into massive particles, and mass could be transformed back into energy. So would their union beget more energy or more matter? Or both? He suddenly had an unexpectedly vivid image of the two of them on the lake, sitting together in a rowboat being rocked by their rowdy grandchildren. _E=mc_2. _A recipe for nuclear fusion or fission_. _Or disaster_. He let out a chuckle at the thought. Never mind if he and Stella were ready for this little town - was Highland Mills ready for _them_?

Turning around, he saw the sheriff still watching him carefully, now with a grin on his face.

"What's so amusing, son?"

He smiled back, unable to shake the image of the little rowboat. "For some reason, I was thinking about … my retirement."

"Sounds like you'll have something to look forward to, in that case."

He laughed. "It rather does, doesn't it?"

The sheriff stepped up beside him. "So you're not planning to slow down until then?"

"I suppose not," he sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows against the bannister once more.

He gave the younger man a sidelong look. "And what does your better half think of that?"

After a moment's thought, Mac shook his head. "I have no idea. I'm constantly trying to keep up with her, as it is."

"Well," he suggested with a gleam in his eye, "why don't you just ask her tonight?"

"Tonight …?" He blinked at the sheriff in surprise.

"Your … appointment?"

Mac smiled. "You're very observant, you know that, don't you?"

"And so are you, son," the old man replied, returning the compliment without hesitation. "I saw you looking at the hardware store just now. You were wondering why it was closed, right? What would you say if I told you a murder was committed there earlier, just around the time you arrived?"

Mac's face fell and his smile faded. "You're kidding." He suddenly recalled that the sheriff had appeared late in court, looking shaken. "What happened?"

"Old Fred Olsson was standing at the top of a stepladder when some guy suddenly came in waving a gun …" The old man's voice faltered for a moment. "Fred refused to come down and open the cash register - Fred's son is the store manager, you see. So the guy kicked the ladder and Fred just … fell off. It was an accident, of course, but in the context of a robbery, it's _murder_, not manslaughter, as you're well aware."

"I'm _so_ sorry to hear that." Mac instinctively put his arm around the sheriff's shoulder, wishing he'd confided in him sooner, yet also realizing why he hadn't. "I assume you knew Fred very well."

"I've known Freddy for sixty years," he sighed. "We were at school and in the army together. I'm … really going to miss him now." He wiped his eyes and ran his hand under his nose, before straightening his back. "I guess that's what you get for trying to be a hero these days. The guy tipped over the cash register and managed to grab a single hundred dollar bill before fleeing town."

"A murder for a $100." Mac shook his head sorrowfully. They stood together in silence for a moment, sharing the burden of the job. "Life is even cheaper in Manhattan, would you believe?"

The sheriff looked back at him with a bitter smile. "I don't doubt it."

Mac left his phone in his pocket for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

It took several hours before the judge finally ordered the case adjourned for the day. As people filed out of the little courthouse, Mac accompanied the sheriff across the street and back to his office in the town hall. While the sheriff left to check up with his men on the murder investigation, Mac sat down and took a moment to read and sign the transcripts of his testimony.

When the old man returned to his office, he saw that Mac was ready to leave. "You're going back via Ramapo, I take it? Will you be all right finding your way?"

Mac looked puzzled. "Well, I got here all right." He hoped he hadn't given the impression he was so stressed out that he'd lost his ability to navigate. Getting to Highland Hills had been like finding a needle in a haystack, but returning to the City had to be a piece of cake.

The old man nodded slowly. "You passed the road works on State Route 17 coming up, didn't you? The southbound detour is a little complicated. It'll take you through the woods."

"I'll just rely on my satnav." He waved his hand dismissively. "I got me here all right."

"Ah, you see, that's the problem." By way of explanation, the sheriff drew several loops in the air with his fingertip. "For some reason it can't deal with the detour. It'll send you going around in circles, or so I've been told."

"No kidding." Mac watched the gesture with a frown, wondering how many miles each little loop represented. "So what should I do instead?"

"Well, you need to head south down State Route 32. At the traffic circle, take the first exit toward Seven Lakes Parkway. Continue down Averill Avenue into Sterling Forest and drive along the Appalachian Trail for about two miles until you see a sign for the Adirondack Mountain Club on your left. Hang a right and continue down the hill on a gravel road for half a mile until you reach State Route 17, which will be signposted as the Orange Turnpike, though. You with me so far?"

"Got it." While nodding, Mac closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. The sheriff had already lost him after the traffic circle.

"Good. Now if you find yourself on a little bridge at this point – well, actually it's a dam – you've ended up crossing State Route 17 and entered Harriman State Park instead. Don't worry, though. Almost everyone misses the turn-off the first time around."

Mac stared at him, his mind balking at the prospect of anything but a straightforward drive back. "You know ... I might just take my chances with the satnav."

"Suit yourself, son." The old man rummaged through the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieved a folded map. "Here, take this with you. It's a map of the state park, in case you get lost."

The two men gave each other a heartfelt farewell handshake on the porch.

"Thank you very much for your time, Detective Taylor."

Mac smiled back. "Thank you, sir. And not just for the map."

When he got into the Avalanche, he tossed the map onto the passenger seat and switched on the satnav. He glanced at his watch and decided to add half an hour to the estimated time it'd take him to drive back, allowing for early evening rush-hour congestion over the bridges into Manhattan. Mindful of the sheriff's words, he added another half hour to find his way through Sterling Forest. **  
**

When he arrived at the roadworks, he stared warily at the orange traffic cones and turned to follow the south-bound detour along a small road that disappeared into the deep shadows of a dense pine forest. While his eyes adjusted to the unexpected darkness, he checked his satnav several times against the detour signs before deciding that it was keeping him on course, after all. Although he'd switched on his headlights and slowed down to 25 mph, it took him several minutes to realize that he'd suddenly run out of orange signs alongside the road. _Where the hell was he now? _

Just as he was debating whether to turn back, he sighed with relief when he saw a wooden, hand-painted sign "Adirondack Mountain Club" up ahead on his right. He drove past the sign and followed the satnav instructions to turn left down a narrow, two-track gravel road that wound its way through the trees. At the bottom of a steep hill, the gravel road crossed a wider, paved road on the diagonal. _Was this State Route 17?_ Checking for oncoming traffic first, he rolled into the junction and looked around in vain for road signs among the silent trees. _Nothing_. He glanced at the satnav instructions and reluctantly turned left, which his instincts were telling him had to be northbound, despite the lack of light. After driving down empty forest roads for ten minutes, his heart sank when he recognized the gravel road leading up a steep hill on his right. _He'd come full circle._

"Son-of-a …"

He thumped his fist on the steering wheel in frustration and came to a halt. He heard heavy road traffic somewhere nearby, which didn't make sense, because according to the satnav he shouldn't be anywhere near a busy road. Biting on his lower lip, he debated whether he should drive back up the hill to the Mountain Club or continue south down along the paved road. He turned his eyes up to the sliver of sky above the trees, which seemed to be getting darker by the minute, threatening a downpour soon.

He glanced down at the fuel gauge and groaned out loud. Now he was running on empty in every possible sense. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face wearily with both hands. Maybe he'd get to hike the Appalachian Trail sooner than expected. _Alone. At night. In the pouring rain. _Desperate for some encouragement, he pushed the depressing thought aside and tried to reach Stella again, but to no avail.

"Stella, I'm heading back now, but I don't know yet how long it'll take me." No need to admit he was hopelessly lost just yet. "How about …" he glanced down at his watch and sighed deeply, "… _pizza_?"

He decided to continue along the road ahead and was almost optimistic about finding his way again, when the road suddenly emerged from the trees, crossed over a busy highway, and plunged back into dense woods. His heart sank as he continued through the trees for another mile, realizing he'd crossed into Harriman State Park after all, just as the sheriff had predicted. When he drove across a concrete bridge over what looked like a small river, he pulled over and got out to take a closer look. He walked back to the edge of the bridge and stared down below his feet. Yup, it was a dam, not a bridge. _Damn it_._ Time to use the map, after all._

Sliding back into his seat, he carefully unfolded the map against the steering wheel. His eyes narrowed and his heart skipped a beat when he took a closer look at the details. Straightaway he noticed that the cloverleaf interchange he'd crossed before entering Sterling Forest was missing. So were several other roads that he'd passed along the way. And towns. The state route numbering was different, Seven Lakes Parkway was named Stony Brook, and the I-87 only had half as many exits. He checked the map legend for a date and his shoulders slumped in defeat. _1967_. Not only did he have to drive forty miles back to Manhattan, but now he'd have to travel forty years into the future, as well.

He retrieved his phone from his pocket before setting off again. "Rain check on the pizza, Stella," he grumbled irritably. "I'm stuck in the Bermuda Triangle. Look, I'll just call you in the morning, okay?"

After a few minutes, he saw a blue parking sign on his right and turned into a large, nearly empty parking lot enclosed on all sides by dense bushes and trees. Driving slowly across the lot, he spotted an old, wooden gateway over a trail leading into the woods. Once he'd parked the Avalanche, he snatched the map from the passenger seat and got out to have a closer look. Through the bushes he glimpsed a few tents and RVs, reminding him that campgrounds stayed open until Columbus Day in New York.

His eyes widened in astonishment when he read the words carved into the weathered wood above his head, "No Man Stands So Tall As When He Bends To Help A Child." A smaller, much more recent sign had been nailed to one of the gateway posts, "Welcome to Baker Camp on Lake Sebago. Hourly Boat Rentals. No Pets Permitted." He studied the map in his hands, wondering if he'd just located the former Masonic Camp for Indigent Young Girls, the only campground on Lake Sebago according to the outdated map.

At that moment, he was startled when a teenaged girl with long, blonde hair strolled right past him. She had a dreamy smile on her face and was wiping her mouth with a greasy paper napkin. He watched her crumple the napkin and drop it into a bag with a familiar green-and-yellow logo on its side. He frowned, unable to recall Subway sandwiches ever tasting _that_ good. Then he turned to take another look at the parking lot behind him. _Had she just come from one of the parked cars?_

Turning back, he watched her stop at one of the green trash containers lined up alongside the bushes near the campground entrance. She pulled on the handle a few times and banged her fist on the lid in frustration, before finally dropping the plastic bag on the ground.

As he walked towards her, he glanced over his shoulder again, unaware that he was now approaching his personal ground zero.

"You need help with that?" he asked her quietly, not wanting to alarm her.

"It's locked somehow." She looked up at him and shook her head earnestly. "It won't open."

Still baffled by her sudden appearance, he turned to point to the muddy trail beneath the gateway. "Did you just come from the campground?"

She gave him a lopsided smile. "Yeah, I'm camping with friends."

He glanced down at her shoes and wondered vaguely why she'd bothered with the lie. Judging by her height and her clothing, he guessed her to be about fifteen or sixteen. Perhaps if she were camping with her boyfriend, she'd have a reason for being economical with the truth.

"You have an adult with you as well, I hope?"

"Of course," she replied indignantly. "Sarah and Becky both brought their moms."

"Good ..."

He studied her face for a moment, unable to put his finger on what exactly was bothering him about her_. _She'd volunteered way too much information for it all to be true. _But why lie to a stranger_? Her words sounded untroubled, yet her eyes somehow seemed to convey unease. _Was something wrong?_ Finally, he shrugged it off, deciding that whatever it was it was probably none of his business. _What did he know about teenagers anyway?_

He pointed to the bag she'd left on the ground behind her.

"Your trash. You can't just leave it there."

"Why not?" Although she looked skeptical, she went back obligingly to retrieve the bag. Then she began to run her fingers along the container lid, trying to pry it open.

He walked up beside her and sighed. "You really don't know the first thing about camping, do you?"

She stared at him. "Wh-what do you mean?"

"Here, let me show you how to open it." He slid his fingers into an opening on the side and pressed against a lever to release the lid. "They should've explained this to you at the campsite -"

They were interrupted by a deep rumble from the bushes.

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

Mac shook his head in slow disbelief as his senses shifted into high alert. "Damn it," he swore under his breath and instinctively began taking steps backwards. "This really is the _last_ thing we need right now ..."

His eyes narrowed as he scanned the shrubbery along the parking lot for signs of movement. A gust of wind undulated down through the bushes, making all of the autumn-colored leaves ripple and stir in unison. Then everything was quiet again. _Had he been mistaken?_ He flared his nostrils when he sensed - more than actually heard - a discordant rustling on the ground, only a few yards away.

The girl was still standing beside the trash container, the bag dangling loosely from her fingertips.

"Get away from there," he urged her in a low voice, while making wide, sweeping motions with his hand. "Do you hear me? Get _away_ from there."

Now he caught a fleeting glimpse of cinnamon-colored fur behind the dense tangle of leaves and branches. For a brief moment, a broad face stared back at him from the shadows, before he remembered to avert his eyes. Its head had been huge, its eyes set far apart, and its ears laid back - all signs of a large boar - and he guessed its weight at 500 pounds.

Slipping his hand under his jacket, he was thankful he'd decided to bring his Glock with him today. Yet when he briefly lowered his eyes to check its magazine, he found it only held two bullets. He realized he hadn't had time to reload since visiting the shooting range three days ago. Unless he was incredibly lucky, it'd take at least three or four well-placed shots to down a bear that size. He definitely couldn't waste rounds by firing blindly into the bushes or up into the air.

"Drop the bag and come over here," he quietly told the girl, who still hadn't moved. "Do what I tell you. Drop. The. Bag. _Now_."

"But _you_ just told me to pick it up!"

She turned around to face him with her hands on her hips, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. When she saw the gun in his hand, her eyes widened in terror and she backed up against the container with a thud. The bag finally slipped from her fingers and fell to her feet.

"What's your name?" he asked her gently.

"Tr-Tracy."

"Listen up, Tracy." He kept his gun trained on the bushes as he beckoned her over with his other hand. "I'm a police officer." He briefly pulled back his jacket to flash the badge on his belt. "That's why I'm armed. Come over here and I'll protect you."

"Oh no …" Her face fell and she wiped her hand under her nose, suddenly looking like she was on the verge of tears. "You're … a _cop_?"

It wasn't the response he'd expected. "Yes, and that's a _bear _right behind you." Given the imminent danger she was in, her behavior frightened him. How could she possibly be in doubt about what to do? "So get away from there right _now_."

The leaves rustled again and they heard a snort followed by heavy breathing. The girl flinched and slid a long sideways step along the container. Still hidden in the bushes behind the container, the animal trailed after her and began swatting the ground with its forepaws.

The color drained from her face and she turned around to peer into the bushes. "Wh-what does it want from me?"

Gripping his gun with both hands, Mac edged sideways to try to get a clear line of sight at the animal. He was fairly certain there'd be no need to fire the gun, as long as he could persuade the girl to move away from the container.

"You smell of food," he explained quietly. "Just come over here and get behind me. I'll protect you. You'll be all right, Tracy, I promise." He offered his hand to her again. "Whatever you do, _don't_ look into its eyes, _don't_ shout and _don't_ run. Can you remember that? Tracy?"

The girl remained rooted to the spot and didn't seem to hear him at all.

"Tracy? Are you even _listening_ to me? You _need_ to get away from there right _now._"

She was obviously terrified, but Mac began to suspect another reason for her lack of reaction.

"_Tracy_!" he finally hissed at her. "What's your _real_ name?"

"A-Amy ..." she replied almost inaudibly, her back still turned to him.

"Okay, Amy, don't worry." He did his best to keep his voice as quiet and reassuring as possible. "I'll protect you. You'll be fine, Amy. Just walk slowly over to me, okay? I really don't want to have to shoot the bear."

She shook her head defiantly, making his blood run cold. "You've come to arrest my father, haven't you?"

"Your … father?" he repeated without comprehension. He took his eyes off the bushes to look at her, his confusion mounting. "Are you telling me your father is here?"

She didn't answer for a moment. "No, that's actually not what I said." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "You did _not_ hear me say that, okay?"

"Okay, okay, you're right, I misheard you," he quickly conceded in order to calm her down. Realizing he was getting nowhere, he tried a different tack. "Look, don't you know _anything_ about bears? You've been to school, I presume."

"The Sisters call them God's creatures," she replied vaguely.

"Your … sisters?" Now he began to approach her, one careful step at a time. He'd intended to call for backup, but his first priority right now was to get the girl out of danger. "Are they camping here with you, Amy?"

"Sheesh, they're not my _real_ sisters."

"Your _step_sisters, then?" Why was it so difficult to talk to this girl? Was this just the way teenagers talked, or did she have mental problem? "So are you saying your whole family is here, as well?"

"_What_ family?" She raised her voice, making him cringe. "If you arrest my father now, I won't _have_ a family anymore. I bet that never even crossed your mind, huh?"

"Amy, _please_," he pleaded with her, exasperated by their conversation. "Why on earth would I want to do that? I don't even _know_ your father."

Now he was close enough to slip his left hand around her waist and grab her right wrist tightly, pulling her flush against his own body. Then he started to back them both slowly away from the container while keeping his gun aimed at the bushes over her shoulder. He realized he couldn't reach his phone as long as he had his arm around the girl, but he didn't dare let go of her just yet.

"Let _go_ of me!" She struggled in his grasp. "Damn it! You have no _right_!"

"Hey, I'm not trying to hurt you." He glanced down at her with a frown. "What's the _matter_ with you?"

At that moment, she stomped down on his foot and spun around to elbow him in the face, catching him completely off-guard. As he stumbled backwards, the gun flew from his hand and clattered across the asphalt. Watching it disappear beneath the container, he was astounded at how quickly she'd managed to tip the situation into the bear's favor.

Now the girl bolted from his arms, heading back towards the parked cars, but she stumbled after just a few steps and skidded across the asphalt. As she tried to climb back up on her feet, the bear suddenly broke cover and burst through the bushes in a shower of leaves. Her screams were high and shrill when the animal's full weight bore down on her and she was slammed facedown onto the ground.

"Get it off me! Get it _off_ me!" she shrieked as it snuffled her hands. "Stop it! Oh God, please _do_ something!"

"Hey!" He waved his arms over his head, breaking all the rules at once in a frantic attempt to prevent her from being mauled. "_Hey_!"

To his relief, the bear hesitated for a moment before rising up onto its hind legs to sniff the air curiously. But then its empty, unblinking eyes locked onto his, and he suddenly realized he had no choice now but to make a desperate dash for the gun. Yet although he was much closer to the trash container, the animal easily beat him to it.

His hand was already reaching for the gun when the bear lashed out at him with a savage growl, stopping him dead in his tracks. His breath caught in his throat as his world came to a grinding halt. For a moment his mind was wiped blank, and everything around him – the girl, even the bear - disappeared into a haze. At first he didn't feel anything at all – a bad sign, he knew - apart from the breeze wafting against his bare skin. Then he was suddenly unable to hold his own weight any longer and he fell to his knees with a groan, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

When he glanced down at his torn shirt, he saw a dark stain already seeping into the fabric of his pants. Sliding his hand across his wet, sticky stomach, he prayed that he hadn't just been gutted. He folded his arms over his midriff and fought to keep his balance on his knees. Already a little voice in the back of his head was telling him he'd be safer falling on his face than on his back.

The next blow caught him across the chest. He landed on his back with a gasp, knocking the wind from his lungs. Now he was blinking up at the sky, too dazed to move. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself against the sudden surge of pain from where the bear's claws had slashed him. He clasped a hand to his chest and stared dully up at his blood-streaked fingers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the animal lumber towards him, its head hanging low on its shoulders.

The bear smacked its paw onto his thigh, pinning him down like a butterfly. Unable to turn over, he kicked his feet against the asphalt, trying desperately to gain traction to get out from beneath it. He arched his back in agony when it shoved its muzzle across his stomach, making a beeline towards his throat. His hands sank deep into its fur as he struggled to keep its slobbering jaws away from him. Feeling its breath puff against his neck, he finally wrapped his arms over his face in a feeble, last attempt to protect himself. Razor-sharp teeth dug into his shoulder and he heard the sickening sound of bones breaking.

When the bear raised its head without letting go, a soaring pain ripped through his arm and he found himself being wrenched backwards. His head rolled back on his shoulders, tilting his world upside down, and the evening sky opened up below him like a bottomless chasm that threatened to swallow him up. His vision had begun to fade along the edges and dark shadows were already closing in on him. Yet he dimly realized he was being dragged across the parking lot towards a certain death. His only hope now was that it would be mercifully quick.

A near-deafening gunshot suddenly cracked the air. He gasped when the bear unclenched its jaw and dropped him to the ground like a ragdoll. The world righted itself up, the sky stopped twirling, and the parking lot slipped back underneath him. Stars exploded when his head slammed against the asphalt, grazing his cheek and forehead.

He lay unmoving, his eyes staring along the ground while he heaved for air. His injured arm was somehow behind his back now, but he recognized the blurry outline of his other hand stretched out in front of him. To keep from passing out, he tried to shut his mind to the pain by focusing his attention on his fingertips instead.

A pair of running feet approached and then the girl was kneeling down beside him, his gun still clutched in her trembling hand.

"A-are you _okay_?" She put her hand on his shoulder and bent down low to look him in the eyes. He saw her lips move but the blood pounding in his ears drowned out her words. Then he watched her panicky eyes dart over his body, taking in the full extent of his injuries. "You … you don't actually ... look too good."

Now another pair of feet came pounding across the asphalt towards them. A brawny, bearded man dropped to his knees and threw his arms around the girl's shoulders with a choked sob.

"Oh my God! Oh my God! Goldie, are you _all right_? What _happened _here? You were only gone for _two_ minutes!"

"There was … this _bear_ … and … it just …" she blubbered breathlessly, shuddering inside the man's embrace. She turned to point down at Mac, who was still watching them through half-lidded eyes. "And this man … _he_ … he …"

"I nearly _lost_ you," the man gasped, holding her out at arm's length to look at her. "I'm _never_ letting you out of my sight again!"

Mac saw him gently pull the gun from her hands and flick the safety on before placing it on the ground. Somewhere in his dazed mind, he registered relief that the man seemed to know his way around guns, in case the bear came back.

"He was just … trying to protect me." She buried her face in her hands and began to sob again. "This is all my fault, isn't it?"

"How could this possibly be _your_ fault? The _bear _did this_. _This has nothing to do with us, just remember that." He grabbed her hand as he climbed to his feet. "C'mon, Amy, we've got to get the hell out of here now. This place will be crawling with cops once he's -"

"Dad," she interrupted, pulling her hand back to remain seated beside Mac, "this man saved my life. We can't just leave him like this!"

With a sigh, the man knelt down again and placed his palms on the ground. He crouched down to stare Mac in the face.

"Sir, are you all right? Can you talk, sir?"

Mac tried to slow down his shuddering breaths and blink away his dizziness. An incessant ringing filled his ears now, making him wonder if that meant he was already dying. His thoughts kept hovering just beyond the edge of his awareness, inaccessible even to himself.

"How are you doing? Sir?"

The man threw a reluctant glance over Mac's shoulder and winced before sitting back up on his haunches. "I don't think he can hear us, Amy." He shook his head sadly. "This is just too awful, but there's nothing we can do here. It doesn't look like he'll make it, I'm afraid."

"We can't just leave him lying here. We should be doing _something_."

"Like _what_, Amy?" he sighed. "You _know_ we can't call 911 after what happened in Highland Mills. We'll have to let someone else find him. We can't be dealing with any cops -"

"It's too late, dad." She bit her lip anxiously. "They're already here ..."

"What?" He swiped the gun off the ground, flicked off the safety and cast a nervous glance around him. "What are you talking about? Where?"

She pointed down at Mac, whose eyelids had drifted shut now. "Dad, you should know … _he's_ a policeman."

"What!" His breath hitched in shock. "You're telling me … this man's a _cop_?" He clenched his jaw and his hands automatically balled into fists. "You realize what that means, don't you? He was using _you_ to get to _me!_"

"No, no, he was only trying –" Her eyes widened in alarm.

"And here you had me feeling _sorry_ for you!" He grabbed Mac's collar and rolled him onto his back. "You _just_ couldn't leave us alone, could you? Well, I'm not going to let you come between me and my daughter."

Mac drew a sharp breath and blinked his bleary eyes open. A terrible, sinking feeling settled in his stomach when the man snatched the badge from his belt and flung across the asphalt. He watched helplessly as he proceeded to pull his jacket open and grope around his body, rifling through all of his pockets. Although his mind couldn't grasp what was going on now, he realized he had to remain conscious at all cost.

With a cry of triumph, the man pulled Mac's wallet from his jacket and flicked it open.

"Hah! I just knew it!" He handed the wallet to the girl. "He's _NYPD_, damn it! He must've followed me all the way from the City!"

"No, no, he didn't even realize you were -"

He interrupted her with a sneer. "Did _he_ tell you that, Amy? And you actually _believed_ him?"

"Y-yes, I did –"

"Well, I'm impressed how you managed to get his gun away from him. He would've stood a much better chance against the bear if you hadn't."

"What?" She blanched and her hands flew up to her mouth in horror. "Are you saying …? You actually think …? But that's _not_ what happened!"

By now Mac had managed to slip his hand into his jacket pocket and was sliding his thumb sluggishly across the keys of his phone. He prayed he was dialing 911, but had no idea which way the phone was facing in the palm of his hand. He froze when the man suddenly caught sight of what he was doing.

Blind rage made him grab Mac's hand and pull the phone from his fingertips. He flipped it over to read the number. "He's called for backup, damn it!"

He rose to his feet and stomped on the phone, splintering it against the asphalt. Seeing him raise his foot again, Mac lifted his hand and tried to block a rib-cracking kick to his chest. The sudden jolt of pain sent him spiraling down into darkness.

"Wh-what are you _doing_, dad?" the girl shrieked and she jumped to her feet to stop him. "Have you completely lost your_ mind_?" She grabbed him and strained to pull him back before he delivered another kick. "C'mon, let's just get out of here, like you said before!"

"_No_." He jerked his hand from hers with grim determination. "He's seen us together, Amy. I don't want you involved in anything. We can't leave a witness behind." Glancing over his shoulder, he turned around slowly to scan the parking lot. "C'mon, we don't have much time. Give me a hand here."

He grabbed the lifeless man by his wrist and began trying to pull him backwards. "We'll just have to drag him into the bushes ourselves."

"W-we _can't_ do that," she cried out in alarm, pointing at the shrubbery ahead of them. "If we drag him over there, the bear will _eat_ him!"

"That's the _point, _Amy." He tugged at Mac's hand again, yanking his body a few feet across the asphalt. "Don't you see, it would've happened anyway, if you hadn't fired that gun?" He ran the back of his hand over his forehead as he paused for breath. "He's too heavy. I can't do this without you, Amy."

A hoarse groan tore from Mac's throat and he opened his eyes to find himself staring up at the man holding his wrist. The agony made him lock his teeth tightly together and he nearly lost his grip on consciousness again. Completely disoriented at first, it took his dazed mind several seconds to realize what was happening.

"You … _son-of-a-bitch_," he gasped through clenched teeth, trying in vain to pull his hand from the man's grasp. "Let _go_ of me …"

"Oh God, please, dad, _no_!" the girl sobbed with her hands over her face, watching Mac's struggle from between her fingers. "This isn't right. We _can't_ be doing this!"

The man let go at last and sighed in frustration. "Well, _what_ then, Amy? We _can't_ leave him here, I already told you. He'll _talk, _and I'm _not_ going back to prison again."

He looked down at gun on the ground and threw a glance over his shoulder at the bushes behind him. "I'm sorry, but the way I see it, we've only got two possible options here."

Twisting her fingers anxiously through her hair, the girl turned around to look back at the parked cars. "No, there's _another_."

She looked shyly down at Mac as she spoke. When their glances met, he searched her eyes in vain for answers, just as he'd do again three months later.

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

Yup, that's right. The _bear_ did it. :C

_That's_ why Mac's ordeal made national news. And _that's_ why Mac was so bothered by Amy chewing on her hair, in chapter 1. And _that's_ why Amy threw up when her father asked what was eating her, in chapter 3. In fact, _that_ explains a lot of things that might not have made much sense at first.

What about the Katzes, then? Well, they basically did … nothing. Frank's crime – and Amy's sin – was one of omission, not commission.

So what happens 'next' – in chapter 0, so to speak? Well, at Tryon Mac promises to visit Amy again if she can show everyone she knows right from wrong, which I have no doubt she'll be able to do. I also think Mac will arrange for Amy to visit her father in prison without ever realizing that this was her part of the bargain with her father to keep him alive. I think Amy mentions the Barbie doll to Mac at Tryon in order to find out if he remembers what she did for him, only to find out that he doesn't. :'C Although I think she is too loyal to her father ever to tell anyone what happened, Mac and Amy will continue to have an intuitive understanding and will stay in touch.

And what about _Mac_? Well, I don't think he's forgotten the little mindfulness exercise the sheriff put him through, and he'll go on to do great things together with Stella, whatever they might be – but one thing is for sure: he _won't_ be hiking in the woods anytime soon … :C


End file.
